


The Act Unknown

by Naamah_Beherit



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Drama, In Medias Res, M/M, Unspecified Setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-06-20 06:12:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15527871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naamah_Beherit/pseuds/Naamah_Beherit
Summary: Life of an actor in a travelling troupe is easy and full of surprises. Distractions are plenty andthatis exactly what Yuuri needs to take his mind off the past he one day hopes to forget.Then a commission brings the troupe to the court of the prince with eyes like ice, the very last person Yuuri ever wants to meet.After all, one can hold on to only so much regret before it starts festering - and he's had thirteen years of it.***A story is told, a play is staged, and perhaps - miraculously - even broken hearts and shattered dreams can be mended.





	1. Act I: κατάβασις. Part 1.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this terribly self-indulgent variation on one of my favourites tropes. It wouldn't have seen the light of day without [Vampiric_Charms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms) and [Skowronek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skowronek), who's also responsible for beta reading. Thank you, ladies! ♥
> 
> Tags are few and will remain this way to avoid spoilers. If you don't want to wait, drop me a message and I'll give you a comprehensive list of tags I'd use if I didn't want to spoil the story. The names of countries might seem familiar, because they're simply Latin or native names for real countries. That's all there is to it - setting and geography are left purposely vague and unspecified.  
> Potential warnings for each chapter will be posted in the end note. It's applicable to this chapter as well.
> 
> Music for this chapter is [_Fox On The Run_ by Sweet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VP2umy6TdEU)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognise, though the plot is mine.
> 
> Enjoy!

Chris’s lips tasted like wine and strawberries.

He always liked those cheap lipsticks, Yuuri mused. He grabbed Chris by the lapels of his overly-ornate jacket and pulled him closer. Desperation, he recalled Madame’s words; he had to show desperation and longing so profound anyone would feel them.

“Please,” he breathed in between kisses, into the silence of held breaths and dim light. “There’s still time, we can still find a medic... please, my love, don’t give up!”

Chris cupped his face in his hands and Yuuri leant into the touch like a man starved. A sob welled up in his throat and choked him when he tried to stop the tears from falling. It was not the time for tears. Not yet.

“Darling,” Chris crooned, but his voice was weak like Chris himself. He seemed to be standing upright solely because Yuuri was holding him. “There’s no time and you know it.”

He shook his head, this time letting the tears flow freely. “No. No! I refuse! I refuse to see you die!”

“Alas, that’s what—” A gut-wrenching cough broke Chris’s sentence and Chris himself in two. He fell to his knees and Yuuri followed, cradling Chris’s head in his hands. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost see the blood on his hands and arms. It turned golden foxes adorning his tunic red, almost indistinguishable from the scarlet of his robes.

Minami truly outdid himself this time.

“One... one would think you’ve come to care for me,” Chris mumbled, barely audible over his laboured breathing. “That this ridiculous marriage of convenience has become something you’re fond of.”

“You stupid, stupid man.” Yuuri sobbed and kissed him again. The taste of wine and strawberries lingered on his lips. “It was never ridiculous to me.”

Chris’s eyes fluttered closed and remained that way for a long time. Yuuri’s heartbeat was all he could hear.

“Find love again,” Chris finally rasped, his voice so weak Yuuri would be willing to think he imagined it. “Forget me, move on—”

“Never!”

“—and be happy again. Promise me, darling.”

“How could I love someone who’s not you? Someone who doesn’t know how to make me laugh? Who doesn’t know what to do when I cry? You’re the only one for me, my love. There can never be anyone else.”

“You were my only one,” Chris opened his eyes and somehow cracked a smile, “but I wasn’t yours. Promise me... promise...”

“My love?” Yuuri grabbed Chris’s hand and brought it to his face; and it was limp, lifeless and cold. “Please, no. Don’t leave me like this, please, my love...”

He hung his head and wept, and everyone wept alongside him.

“Gods,” he wailed, “what have I done to deserve this? Why do you test me so?” He looked up to the ceiling and the smoke of numerous candles floating directly beneath it. “I’ve only ever wished for him to stay close to me.”

No one said anything for a long while. Not a single sound was uttered when he pressed one last kiss to Chris’s lips. It was a true success, to shock the audience into silence.

“And so he died,” Phichit said like a master sorcerer breaking a spell, “and the world has fallen silent.”

 

* * *

 

And then – the applause.

 

* * *

 

Years had numbed him to praise.

Naturally, he would never show it; not to the people whose twinkling eyes, bright smiles, and overflowing tears still meant the world to him. A graceful tilt of his head, a soft smile meant to make him look mysterious, a kiss to the cheek of a blushing maiden – he gave them freely, content and gracious in showing his gratitude.

And yet he could only hear that he was a spectacular actor so many times before if became an empty statement of a fact.

“Well done, _mon ami_. You were magnificent today.”

“So were you,” Yuuri said with a smile, pointedly ignoring a hand that landed on his bottom. He accepted the glass of wine Chris was giving him and clinked it with his in a wordless congratulations. They had not celebrated in another way for a while.

Yuuri took a step to the side and Chris’s hand fell down. They were not celebrating in another way tonight either, even though some part of Yuuri craved intimacy more and more with each passing day.

Too much time had passed since he took someone to his bed. Maybe he would rectify that once they settled somewhere to wait out the upcoming winter. It was not upon them yet; not fully, anyway, though mornings on the road already welcomed them with chill gnawing at their bones.

“I snatched an entire bottle of it,” Chris pointed at the glass in Yuuri’s hand. It was already half empty. “We could sneak out to the waterfront and dance till morning. It’s been a while since we did that.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri said, memories of a night of the Summer Solstice a few years prior coming to his mind. Wine had flowed in abundance and the touch had been generously given and happily received. He had woken up the following morning with a faceful of sunlight shining through the leaves above and an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction. “It’s been a while.”

“So, _chéri_ ,” Chris smiled widely, a far cry from his demure stage persona of their latest play. “You, me, and this bottle of divine concoction?”

And _oh_ , how Yuuri yearned to forget everything even for a moment.

“I can’t,” he said instead. He gave no explanation, more than willing to keep things to himself. It was not easy when they all had been living together for years, but he managed. Somehow.

Chris grinned at him. “Then I suppose a-hunting I will go this night.” There was no sign Yuuri’s rejection affected him in any way. After all, what they had was born of occasional convenience and the need of comfort only another person was able to provide. Feelings had no place in that arrangement.

“Good luck with that. Just please, don’t bring anyone back with you.”

“Have I ever?”

If only Yuuri did not know him, he might have believed that affronted tone to be genuine.

“Should I list them all?” he asked, staring at Chris with what could have been completely unplanned but not unwelcome challenge. “First, that lass from Illyria who happened to be their princess—”

“Ah yes, beautiful Sara.” Chris smiled serenely as if it had not been solely his doing that they were now permanently banned from entering Illyria. “Too bad she’s exclusively into women.”

“—second,” Yuuri went on, undeterred, “that Raetian lord who keeps sending you flowers—”

“Ah,” Chris’s grin took on a predatory edge. He leant towards Yuuri until all Yuuri could feel was his friend’s body heat. And gods, did Chris resemble a furnace. “Admit it, _chéri_ , you’re simply jealous because no one’s sending _you_ flowers.”

The blush on Yuuri’s face in all likelihood matched the colour of his tunic. “I’m not—”

“Pardon me?”

Chris gasped in delight and Yuuri simply rolled his eyes before turning around to face the man who approached them. His face was obscured by the hood he kept up even indoors, but his eyes still reflected the light, glinting in the shadow of the hood brighter than any star.

And they were focused only on Yuuri.

It was an electrifying experience, to be subjected to such undivided attention. Yuuri was no stranger to being watched – after all, he had been a member of the troupe for thirteen years, seven of which he spent on stage, making a name for his own. And yet it seemed different, in a way. There was no scene and no play, no Chris actively sharing the spotlight. Now it was almost as if it was only the two of them, Yuuri and the stranger, everything else dissolving into nothingness.

“I have merely come to offer my congratulations on a successful play,” the stranger said. He did not bother to pull the hood down. “I can only hope you shall forgive me for this untimely interruption.”

“We are most grateful, my lord.” Yuuri bowed, deciding to play it safe. There was no visible insignia on the stranger’s coat, but its quality was far too good to belong to a wayward traveller. Besides, Madame and Maestro would have his head if he acted anything but gracious towards a patron.

“And you didn’t interrupt anything,” Chris added merrily. A sultry smile blossomed on his face – the kind to which men and women flocked like moths to a candle. He made promises with that smile and wove tales with the sway of his hips. “We were just bidding each other goodbye.”

“Ah,” the stranger said, making no move towards him. It was enough to intrigue Yuuri – most men would have already happily fallen into the honey trap of Chris’s allure. “I am glad, then. I must say your performance has moved me beyond any expectations I might have harboured before it began.”

It was in that moment of silence that lasted a heartbeat too long, when Yuuri knew for certain that this man had not approached them because of Chris.

Chris must have realised that as well, because he took a step back, giving Yuuri space in a way he so rarely did on stage. “You’ll thank me later,” he muttered into Yuuri’s ear and disappeared in the crowd, bowing to the stranger one last time with a flourish.

“You flatter me, my lord,” Yuuri said and smiled. It was an act, too, that smile and a cocked head that came with it. It was an invitation on its own rules, one he could revoke at any time.

 _Everyone sees what you want them to see_ , Madame had told him once. _And only that_. _Be whoever you want to be._

“Is it flattery when I have merely stated the truth?” the stranger asked. Something in his voice told Yuuri he did not expect an answer. And so Yuuri did not offer one. He settled for watching him and filing away in his memory what few details he could make out in the shadow of the hood. Scarce they were; nothing but thin lips and the tip of the equally thin nose, and pale chin with no sign of a stubble.

“Then it makes me glad you think so highly of me,” Yuuri said and took a step forward, hoping for another glimpse of the stranger’s face. He was a curious man at heart and if anything, nights spent with admirers were always a pleasant distraction.

The stranger’s posture screamed of yearning and Yuuri realised his heart – or at least his body – responded in kind. It was always like that when they toured; his roles sinking deeper and deeper into his bones until he forgot even himself and was reduced to nothing but instincts demanding fulfillment.

At least the instincts were always real. Perhaps they were the only thing in him that was still real.

“How could I not?” The stranger stepped even closer, until he was within a hand’s reach. Other than that he did not make the tiniest move and simply stood breathless under Yuuri’s unwavering gaze, matching it in kind. “Your acting... it was poetry in motion. I was—inspired.”

“Not to die, I hope?”

It was a jest, nothing but a carefree remark to soften the mood. Not necessarily what Yuuri wanted, but exactly what he had to do.

“I don’t plan on dying anytime soon,” the stranger chuckled, but his voice held no mirth.

And what Yuuri knew was this: no one _did_ plan to die. Death always came unannounced.

“Good.” He offered a smile in return; small and soft as though they were discussing a folly or gossip that had already lost its novelty. First and foremost, encounters such as this were plenty and had already blurred into a single, albeit long one. He had forgotten them all – he would forget this one as well, no matter how much his heart would demand that he do otherwise. “Knowing that you’re alive will surely bring a smile to my face.”

Performance never ended, he had been taught. Not until he was alone in his bed, with only his thought for company. And yet even then he never stopped pretending.

The stranger closed what little distance had been left between them. Yuuri stood his ground without waver, even when the stranger took his hand with utmost gentleness and brought it to his lips to plant a kiss on the knuckles. The touch was fleeting, barely there, and his hand was cold despite the inn’s warmth. Yuuri almost – _almost_ – wished he had time for this kind of dalliance. The way those pale lips lingered on his skin, slightly parted in an unspoken question, told him that he would not even had to make an effort to convince his companion to find a secluded corner and have his way with him.

Yuuri gave in to the temptation and kissed the stranger on the cheek, close to the corner of his lips. The man sucked in a shaky, involuntary breath. How long would it take to make him moan?

“I shall only hope you will think of me fondly, then, in the days to come,” Yuuri said, allowing his lips to curl in a tiny smirk for just a moment. He should not have done that; he should have kept the mask of a humble actor thrilled with the praise he was receiving. And yet the stranger leant in towards him, chasing the closeness and the promise of a kiss that had never been given – and the wistful sigh he let out gave Yuuri satisfaction greater than that left in wake of a successful performance.

“The memory of you will without a doubt become the only thing to carry me through daily hardships.” The stranger’s voice was barely louder than a breath. Yuuri felt it against his skin, grazing it in lieu of a caress that was not bestowed on him.

“Then I’m truly delighted,” Yuuri said and took the man’s hand in one last bout of impulsiveness he decided not to resist. He kissed it chastely, almost reverently, the same way he had kissed his cheek. Each kiss was a trap – and the stranger fell in them willingly. Yuuri saw it in his parted lips and heard in the hitched breath. “The memory of you will also brighten my days.” How many times had he said some variation of that? He did not remember. “Alas, I must bid you farewell, my lord. A prior engagement is awaiting me tonight.”

“That is indeed a shame,” the stranger said, his attention focused on Yuuri as though he was precious to behold. Yuuri had spend years on learning how to enchant the audience with nothing but a wink or a smile – and now he knew he succeeded. “Would it be too forward of me to ask that you mayhap rearrange your schedule?”

Yuuri would be lying if he said he was not tempted to do just that. “It would, my lord,” he answered and took a step back. The stranger made an abrupt move forward like a puppet with cut strings, but he stopped when Yuuri raised a hand. He saw him grit his teeth in... frustration? Disappointment? Yuuri could not tell but neither did he care. “May the Fates smile upon you.”

He turned to leave, thoughts already straying towards what still awaited him before the night ended. No matter how often he carried it on, it never got easier – and maybe that was the point of it all.

The stranger caught up with him in seconds. He grabbed Yuuri by the arm and Yuuri spun around, instincts kicking in before he even realised. His hand went to the dagger he kept beneath his tunic more as a reassurance than the actual weapon he could defend himself with. The stranger’s grip was light on his arm, but the weight of it was nothing short of oppressive. Nothing changed, he knew that; nothing happened, but the smell of a crisp winter air still filled his nose and his skin still tingled from the snow falling around him, blanketing him and stealing his breath, his thoughts, and his life that seeped out of him in pools of blood.

The stranger’s eyes darted to Yuuri’s waist and his white-knuckled grip on the dagger’s handle. He all but jumped backward and raised both his hands in front of him. “Forgive me!” His words were rushed, almost unintelligible. Yuuri exhaled slowly though he did not let go of the dagger. “I didn’t—I just... May I at least know your name?”

If only his heart was not trashing against his ribcage like a frightened animal, Yuuri would have smiled indulgently. Alas, all he could feel was cold.

“No.”

The stranger’s jaw dropped. Be that at the unexpected shift of mood or perhaps because no one had denied him anything before, Yuuri did not know – and did not care.

And yet he forced a smile onto his face, even though respecting a patron had never before required such gargantuan an effort. “You may ask me one more time, though,” he offered magnanimously; his tongue was leaden in his mouth, “if we ever meet again.”

Yuuri wondered if the stranger realised that answer simply meant ‘ _never_ ’. He did not follow Yuuri this time, though. The crushing grip of panic around Yuuri’s heart uncoiled bit by bit with every step he took. By the time he reached the door, it disappeared completely. Terrors such as this belonged in the depths of his memory, pushed back and forgotten alongside parts of his life that deserved the same treatment. He could never forget them – not entirely, much to his displeasure; the least he could do was pretend they held no power over him.

He was an actor. He pretended for a living.

 

* * *

 

The city’s brothel was a posh, luxurious establishment – the kind of which Yuuri never got used to.

He took a leaf out of the stranger’s book and did not lower his hood upon entering, hiding from curious eyes in the comforting shadow of anonymity. It was not uncommon to meet the troupe’s patrons in a place like this. He had been recognised once, a few years prior; one thing led to another and in the end he found himself vomiting in the back alley behind the brothel, his entire body shaking and the scar on his back burning as it had the day he got it.

He did not recognise anyone now, but the lights were dim and he was tired. A few prostitutes – men and women alike – cast curious glances at him, full of interest he could almost believe in. He knew what kind of act lay behind that façade – imperfect and forced one, given and accepted without conviction. The signs were there to see, out in the open for anyone who dared to look beyond the superficial glamour. Their smiles were too wide, slightly crooked; a hair’s breadth of turning into a panicked grimace. Their eyes – dead, terrified or resigned; and he did not know which of those was worse. And then in a blink of an eye all of that was gone, and they reached out to touch and whisper sweet nothings in his ear.

He ignored them all.

It did not take long for a middle-aged woman to approach him. Her dress was considerably more modest than the clothes the prostitutes were clad in, but it still befitted a court or a ball more than a brothel. The beauty of yore still echoed beneath the lines on her face and in her discoloured eyes.

Yuuri wondered when was the last time she had smiled.

“Welcome to the Garden of Delight, sir,” she said and bowed her head in greeting. Yuuri’s half-forgotten upbringing almost made him respond in kind, despite the impropriety of it. He stopped himself just in time. “How can we serve you today?”

Even though she could not see his face, Yuuri made a show of looking around slowly as if the prostitutes and decorations intrigued him. “I found myself in need of company for the night,” he said. It took a great effort to sound like a bored customer who had seen much better in many other brothels. “I wonder if I’ve come to the right place.”

There was no doubt about _that_ , but if life taught him anything it was that feigning ignorance always helped.

“Of course it’s the right place.” The woman pointed at one of the chaises and sat on the edge of it. Yuuri took a seat opposite her, trying to ignore the variety of looks thrown in his direction. They varied from mildly interested to lustful, mastered to perfection to resemble genuine feelings. To his absolute horror, he was unsure that they were truly, completely feigned. “What may I offer you, my lord? An Illyrian maiden whose beauty surpasses even that of their crown princess? Or perhaps a Sinaean conqueror bereft of his army, who will fulfil all your wildest dreams? Or—”

“To be honest, I find more pleasure in the innocence of youth,” he interrupted. The woman showed no sign of discomfort; she merely nodded, indifferent as she was, and Yuuri felt a scorching flame of fury and disgust lick at his heart. “If you know what I mean.”

“I do, my lord.” She reclined on the chaise, perhaps trying to catch a glimpse of his face underneath the hood. Maybe he should don a mask next time. “Do you have gender preferences?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then I can offer you a Bohemian girl on the verge of womanhood, or her brother, an incredibly flexible—”

“How many do you have?” Yuuri interrupted again. He barely registered the pain in his hands. He kept them hidden in his pockets, because it was the only way no one would see his clenched fists.

“How—” The woman’s composure faltered for the first time. It was minuscule, almost unnoticeable – just a twitch in the corner of her mouth. A surge of vindictive satisfaction flowed through Yuuri. “Five, my lord.”

He tapped his fingers on the armrest a few times. Experience had taught him that rushing into transaction hardly resulted in a success. Stalling for too long was not a good choice either.

She kept her eyes on him for a while, her tired gaze measured and unmoving. Yuuri was unable to read her impassive expression and that might prove problematic before the night ended. He usually had a back-up plan in place, something that relied on exploiting the handlers’ weaknesses or calling in favours. They were the most valuable currency at his disposal; something to use when everything else had failed. But this place – a remote town near the southern borders of Ruthenia, far away from where they usually performed, was an unknown and the unknowns made Yuuri queasy.

She straightened and gave him a tight-lipped smile, the same kind with which she had greeted him. “Five,” she said without hesitation. “Three girls and two boys. Shall I describe them? Or would you be willing to tell me your preferences regarding the art of lovemaking, so that I can pick the best one for you?”

It took all of Yuuri’s stage experience not to burst out laughing. The art of lovemaking indeed. “No need,” he said when he had control over his voice. And his hands that craved to curl around the woman’s neck. “I’ll take them all.”

Her eyebrows shot upward all the way to her hairline. “All?!”

“That’s right.” He would have looked her in the eye if only she could see his face. Instead, he just leant against the chaise, tapping steadily on the armrest. _Tap-tap_ , sang his fingers a paean to nonchalance. _Tap-tap,_ whispered his heart in kind, trashing against his ribcage like a startled bird. _Tap-tap_ , trickled away the time, bringing the possibility of failure closer with each passing second. “All of them.”

“That...” she broke off and winced as if having bitten something sour. “That will cost you, my lord.”

He reached for his pouch and made a show out of it. His moves were slow and measured, flourishing just enough to draw the attention of a few nearby prostitutes and their clients. He held it for a moment – not too long, because once lost, it would be impossible to catch it again, and put a gold coin right next to the woman’s leg. Her eyes widened, but she made no move to take it.

“From what I’ve learnt,” Yuuri began sweetly, taking every bit of her focus and keeping it to himself, “this covers the cost of having a companion for an entire night _and_ your expenses as their mistress.”

She glanced at the coin, glittering in the candlelight, and Yuuri knew she was his.

“Yes, that—that is correct.”

He pulled out another coin – and the next one, and the next, up till six were lying centimetres from her leg, mocking her hesitation. Yuuri could see the moment she broke. Her finger twitched at first; uncontrollably, spasmodically. She continued glancing down and pretended not to, keeping up appearances she had long but lost. Those six gold coins – thick, rare Raetian currency that had been steadily giving way to silver for quite some time now – were more than she could have asked for and probably much more than she had ever seen.

“Dima!” she yelled suddenly. She did not turn her gaze away from the coins as if afraid they would be taken away. Or maybe she thought she was dreaming.

A young man came near silently. His moves were graceful, almost catlike, and his blond hairs fell in waves down his back. Yuuri had to bite back a dreamy sigh at the sight of those legs and the most beautiful blues eyes he had ever seen.

He had always known he had a type, ever since he laid his eyes on a blue-eyed blond for the first time in his life.

“Yes, mama Irina?” Dima asked, stealing curious glances at Yuuri without even trying to be discreet about it. If only circumstances were different, Yuuri would not hesitate to play along.

“Please show our guest to one of the rooms upstairs,” Irina instructed. She settled her gaze on Yuuri; finally, even if with a frown marring her forehead. “I must prepare his company for tonight.”

“Of course.” Dima smiled graciously and Yuuri – weak and nigh starved for a lover’s attention – was grateful he was sitting, because his knees would without a doubt buckle under him. “If you’d follow me, my lord.”

Yuuri merely nodded, pushing himself back into the role. This was not about him and his pleasure – or lack of thereof, rather – and thus his needs were not important, even if he were the kind of man to satiate them in a brothel. He did, though, ogle Dima’s well-defined muscles while being led to the room on the first floor, because he fell to his all-time low and was not afraid to admit it.

The room was small, a king-sized bed taking up most of the space, but at least it was clean even if overly luxurious just like the rest of the building. Yuuri took it all in and then crossed the room in a few steps to open the window. It looked out onto a yard shrouded in darkness and he could barely see past the windowsill.

“Do you like it, my lord?”

Yuuri turned to see Dima already halfway into the room, a smirk playing on his perfect lips. His hand rested on his cocked hip, so deliciously wrapped in skin-tight trousers, and Yuuri felt a spark of arousal in his groin. He was well aware it was Dima’s job to make him feel that way, to leave him breathless and craving more – but hell, if only this man was not a prostitute, Yuuri would willingly heed his call.

“It will do,” he said, hoping to conceal disgust with false indifference.

Dima was in front of him now, having closed the remaining distance in what could not described as anything else but a prowl. Yuuri felt warm all over, his heavy cloak almost scorching atop his head and shoulders, and he did not know if it was merely his longing that burnt inside him, or perhaps it was Dima who set his skin on fire with nothing but touch.

“I was... surprised,” Dima said after a while, trailing his fingers up and down Yuuri’s torso and leaving a trail of tingling on its path, “to hear you’ve requested our youngest. A man like you...”

Yuuri shrugged, making a tremendous effort of turning it into a smooth gesture rather than a desperate flailing of a dying man. “We don’t choose whom we love.”

Dima smiled sadly. “Alas,” was all he said and Yuuri almost laughed at that wistful tone and a pout twisting his lips. If circumstances had been different, Dima could have become a successful actor.

Could have beens were not something Yuuri willingly pondered on, though.

He looked out of the window again, trying to quell the yearning in his heart by focusing his mind elsewhere. He should figure out the yard’s layout in case anything went awry – he probably should have done it _before_ coming in, but it was too late to start second-guessing his decisions. Stables were probably somewhere down there – if only judging by the lingering smell of horses – but that was the extent of his assumptions.

Improvisation it was, then.

“My lord?”

Irina was standing on the threshold. Five children were behind her, but once she realised he noticed them, she moved aside and motioned them to come forth. And so they did, and Yuuri’s heart twisted painfully. Tunics they wore barely concealed their bodies, oiled and covered in something that glittered in the candlelight. They smiled at him – the same way he smiled at patrons approaching him after a play – but their eyes remained hollow.

“I trust it they are to your liking?” Irina asked, watching him avidly over their heads. Yuuri’s hands itched with a nigh overwhelming need to wrap around her neck and _squeeze_ ; keep squeezing until no breath was left in her lungs.

Instead, he came closer to the children and tipped the oldest girl’s chin upward. She gave him a smile; a brittle, broken grimace he yearned to wipe off her face. “They’ll do,” he said and released her, looking back at Irina.

“Marvellous.” She clasped her hands over her stomach. “Dima will be outside should you find yourself in need of anything.”

“What?” Yuuri blurted out, for a brief moment losing his poised demeanour. Dima furrowed his brow for a moment, too, but when Yuuri looked at him again, his expression was neutral again.

“He’ll cater to your every need,” Irina said as if that explained her decision. “I’m sure you understand we only want to provide the highest possible level of service, my lord.”

Her tight-lipped smile was neither respectful nor gentle; it resembled a barely contained snarl of mistrust. It had never happened before – at least as long as he was generously giving out money. Could it be he offered her too much? Or not enough? Perhaps the hood made her suspicious – and yet no one seemed to have minded it from the stranger who had come to him after the play.

“I _do_ understand,” he said. The emphasis might have been a little too much, given the scowl that passed through her face. Then he bowed; whatever it was she suspected, _if_ she suspected anything at all, he preferred not to push his luck. “And I thank you for your hospitality. I’m certain it contributes greatly to the fame of your pleasure house.”

Irina nodded – and that was all Yuuri got before she simply turned on her heel and left. Her steps stopped for a moment. “Enjoy your night, my lord,” she said almost as an afterthought. Her final departure brought a heavy, uncomfortable silence upon Yuuri and Dima, who made a visible effort to look anywhere but at the children. Yuuri had witnessed it before – this particular way a person looked at something and saw it without acknowledgment.

“I’ll be outside should you need me, my lord,” Dima said eventually, his voice almost reluctant. He opened his mouth and closed it immediately, shaking his head. Yuuri would give much to know what he was thinking. “Enjoy your night.”

Yuuri gave him a wide, bright smile – and how he even managed that with the children’s eyes on him was beyond his comprehension. “I most certainly will,” he said cheerfully even though uneasiness was already nipping at his heels. “Oh, and Dima?”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind bringing me a jug of water and a few glasses?” He pointed at the bottle of wine standing on the bedside table. “I can hardly be giving these lovelies wine all night long.”

That was as good an excuse as any. And definitely the best one Yuuri could come up with after an entire day of rehearsals and a mentally taxing play following them.

“Right away, my lord.”

 _Take your time_ , Yuuri wanted to say. There was a great many things he wanted to say.

The sound of the door closing was as foreboding as it was liberating, pushing his plans in motion at the maximum speed all at once. Yuuri indulged in one last second to himself, a momentary reprieve of closed eyes and a deep breath. Then he dropped onto his knee and looked at the children.

The gaze of the youngest boy still held a sliver of curiosity, but the others were distrustful, curling in on themselves and looking anywhere but at him. Only the oldest girl met his eyes from time to time, averting it whenever he caught her. It lasted long enough for him to see the hatred in her eyes, which was not at all unexpected.

He pulled the hood down for the last thing he wanted was terrifying them further. “Listen to me carefully, because we don’t have much time. I won’t hurt you. I’m here to get you out.”

That caused the girl to look at him for longer than just a blink of an eye. Neither of them said anything.

“I know you don’t trust me.” _That_ was an understatement. He wished he had a script to go by because finding good arguments was never going to get easier. “You have no reason to and I understand that. But come morning, you’ll be safe and far away from this place if you only allow me to do what I came here for.”

“Away where?” the girl asked. She stepped forward and the kids huddled behind as if she were their shield. “In another brothel? Why would we ever go with you?”

“Why would you stay?” he shot back. “Why wouldn’t you take a chance at freedom no matter how slim it seems to be? How often do you get offers like mine?”

She said nothing; a petulant pout told him all he needed to know.

“The answer is: never,” he pushed on. “It never happens. In your situation you either escape on your own or take a helping hand. Do you want to waste away in this hellhole? Or will you take my hand?”

She bit her lips. They were chapped, bearing evidence of what must have been a habit of hers. Or perhaps that was all she could do to step herself from screaming.

“You won’t be the first I got out.”

 _That_ made her look up at him again – and could it be her eyes were devoid of hostility at last? He never knew; sometimes they were too broken to show anything but detachment.

“Why?” she asked.

Truth it was, then. Words were a bile in his throat and as always getting them out brought him a nearly physical pain. “Because a long time ago I almost ended up where you are now,” he said. Memories of fire, pain, and blood were a haze in his mind, ever swirling at the edges of his consciousness.

How he wanted to forget and never got his wish.

“Almost?” she asked with something akin to hope in her eyes.

“I ran away,” he said. Nothing more would follow; she did not have to know he had almost died in his mad dash towards freedom – and that only the third attempt had been successful.

“We—” she began, but Yuuri stopped her, hearing the footsteps approaching. He brought his hood up and stood up, facing the door.

Dima did not even wait for permission. He just knocked and entered, holding the jug of water to his heart like a treasure. Something flickered in his eyes when his gaze involuntarily fell on the children, but what seemed to be his usual seductive smile made a triumphant return almost immediately.

“Here you are, my lord,” he said and handed the jug over to Yuuri. “Is there anything else you need?”

Against his better judgement, Yuuri let his hand linger on the handle right next to Dima’s fingers – long enough to witness a faint blush appear on the prostitute’s face. He was truly adorable and Yuuri was _starving_.

“Thank you, Dima,” he said quietly, almost in a purr. He had learnt that tone from Chris and it proved invaluable. “That will be all.”

“I will be outside should you need me, my lord,” Dima said as if Yuuri needed a reminder of that quite unfortunate fact. Then he bowed and left, leaving Yuuri with the kids in the deceptive privacy of the room.

If it were up to him, they would have left immediately, without hesitation or spending even one more unnecessary minute in this place. Alas, he had a schedule to follow and whatever favour Madame was going to collect in order to get the children to safety, he had to give her at least one more hour.

He still had to go outside and scout the roof layout. The mere thought of climbing up and down the roofs in the middle of the night with five children in tow made him sick.

“I know it’ll be difficult, but I’m sure you’ve been taught how to fake the sounds of pleasure for your... _clients_ ’ benefit?” he asked, hating himself for having to do so. It was the first time anyone was nearby, without a shadow of doubt listening to what was happening on the other side of the door. Implications of that fact made him sick.

The children nodded solemnly huddled together like frightened animals. Yuuri took his cloak off and kneeled in front of them. Sometimes it helped; at other times – not so much. It was always a gamble.

“I’m so sorry about it, but you’ll have to put on an act as if I really...” He gestured at the bed, hoping they would understand. The scowl on the girl’s face told him that at the very least she did. “Like I said, I won’t hurt you, but we can’t have anyone barge in because it’s too quiet here. Believe me, it’ll be the last time you’ll have to lower yourself to pretend _that_.”

“What about you?” the girl asked and even though hints of mistrust still lingered in her voice, she seemed to have accepted his promises. It was progress he hoped for – especially as he had a feeling the other children would follow her without a question. “You’re going to just... watch us?”

He allowed himself a smile at the fire in her voice. It was tiny, barely there, but still better than nothing but resignation. “Absolutely not,” he said. His joints cracked when he stood up. They always did when nights were getting colder. Old injuries were hard to forget. “I’m going out to find the shortest escape route.”

She followed his line of sight right to the window and could not stop her jaw from dropping. “You’re really—”

And there it was, hope blooming and bringing out the brightest of smiles onto her face. Yuuri responded in kind.

“How do you feel about a late-night stroll along the rooftops?”

 

* * *

 

Morning brought the sound of laughter and the moist chill of winter that crept ever closer despite the fire that was burning the entire night. Yuuri had learnt he could never escape everyone no matter how much he would like to; not when Phichit tore his blanket away at the very first sign of movement, letting the wind nip at his already sore body.

“Behold, the sleeping prince has awoken!” Chris happily announced. His words were barely understandable due to the mouthful of breakfast he was chewing, but Yuuri _did_ understand – and never had he been more grateful for his acting skills, for they let him nod and smile without care even though his heart just skipped a beat. It ridiculous and uncalled for, but his heart had always been a weak, easily terrified thing. “Did you let that hooded Ruthenian fall to his knees and worship you in other ways than just singing praises about your acting?”

“I told you I had other plans.” Yuuri waddled over to the fire and plopped down onto the blankets laid around it. Leo, responsible for cooking until the end of week, handed him a plate with breakfast. It was a variation of what they had the day prior and the day before that. If Yuuri did not know winter was approaching, that would be the sign – this rapidly dwindling variety of meals that would inevitably end up in only dried meat and rusks.

“Ah yes, the mysterious _‘other plans’_. Well. _I_ at least found this absolutely charming Raetian merchant. Gods, the things he did with his tongue...”

After so many years, they just rolled their eyes, because Chris’s stories always ended that way. Every single of his conquests was skilled in some way – and they would hear all about the latest one before another came, taking a place in the long procession of Chris’s lovers. Knowing about them was inevitable, a consequence of living together. Because of that, everyone knew Phichit carried hamsters in the numerous pockets of his vest, or that Leo and Guang-Hong kissed under a blanket they shared when they thought everyone else was asleep. Everyone knew Maestro never wrote before noon and Madame preferred to lose her remembrances at the bottom of a bottle. Everyone knew Minami’s breath hitched every time he looked at Yuuri, and everyone knew Yuuri—

Yuuri hoped all they knew was what he had told them.

“Where are Maestro and Madame?” he asked instead of prying for details about Chris’s latest tryst. After all, he had a first-hand experience what it entailed.

“They’ve gone back to the town,” Leo told him, going through his own breakfast with an alarming speed. Guang-Hong was leaning against his side, drowsy and wrapped in at least three blankets. Yuuri did not have a heart to count.

Recently, he did not have a heart to do anything.

He shoved a spoonful of breakfast into his mouth and tried not to think about how tasteless it was. “To get supplies?”

Gods knew they needed them.

“No, they said something about a business opportunity,” Chris said. It made sense he knew – he was the lead actor after all. “I hoped they’d be back by now. We need to get moving, the next town is over a day away.”

“How many shows left before we need to find a place to stay over winter?” Yuuri asked because _‘that’s the last one’_ had always turned into _‘just one more’_ and before they knew, winter was upon them and forced them to look for shelter in whatever city they found themselves in. More often than not, it was already too late to look.

“Five, maybe six?” I don’t know how far into Ruthenia they plan to take us this time.”

If it were up to Yuuri, they would never even set foot in this country. He used to be terrified at the thought of crossing the border; now, all he felt was unease that lodged itself in his heart, seemingly for good.

“All the way to the capital!” came a booming, happy announcement. They turned in that direction to see Maestro and Madame arrive at the campsite, both starry eyed and smiling wildly.

Yuuri’s blood froze. “All the... what?!”

Celestino Cialdini, the used-to-be star of Illyrian theatre and now the Maestro of their colourful little troupe of wandering actors that had never considered that career before life forced them to, laughed merrily and ruffled Yuuri’s hair on the way to the fire. “Boys,” he said and spread his arms, “we’ll be spending this winter in a palace.”

 _Let me be wrong_ , Yuuri thought when something akin to abyss opened in his heart and spread until he felt cut in two for everyone to see. _Please, let me be wrong_.

“It means,” Minako Okukawa, the Madame that guided them to perfection and must have done many things in her life, about which they knew little but speculated plenty, “we were asked to perform at the feast that will be held after the coronation of His Highness the crown prince Viktor Vasilyevich Nikiforov two months from now.”

“And we’ve agreed,” Celestino added as if that was somewhat unclear. “We’ll be given food and accommodation afterward up till spring.”

In the cheers that erupted, no one seemed to hear the sound of a plate being broken. Yuuri himself did not hear it – however, he did feel the stinging bite of cuts all over his palms. He could not care less; not when his gut was filled to the brim with terror. The others were talking about it, this great breakthrough, this grand opportunity that happened once in a lifetime and would be snatched away from them if not seized and held tightly. He watched them talk – their mouths kept moving, their hands never stopped gesturing wildly in frantic moves full of excitement – and yet all he heard was a steady, deafening buzz that dulled his senses.

He drew in a shaky breath, his thoughts going in circles around that name. His Highness the crown prince Viktor Vasilyevich Nikiforov.

_(He was running; away and away as far as he could. Through the trees in the park, his mother’s delight, through the secret passage in the wall, through the crowded streets until he was covered in grime and could never possibly pass for himself. And suddenly – a sound of horn.)_

Viktor Nikiforov, son of Vasily Ivanovich Nikiforov, the Ice Wolf of Ruthenia. People used to say Vasily was like a raging fire, uncontrollable and wild like a force of nature.

_(Fire – fire consuming everything on its path. People screaming. He was screaming too and then – a hand clasping his own, leading him towards the river.)_

He balled his bloodied hands into fists and heaved a breath as if it was the hardest labour he had to do in his entire life.

“...kun? Yuuri-kun!”

He tore his eyes away from his hands to look at Minako. Her gaze was inscrutable as she surveyed his hunched arms and bleeding hands. Maybe that was for the best. He did not think he could stand pity.

“Yes, Minako-sensei?”

“Come with me, please.” She wasted no time to see if he followed. She simply walked away and he did the same, pretending not to see the concern in the others’ eyes.

Pretending was what he usually excelled at. He had a lot of practice, after all. He could only hope it would be enough to save him.

They were well out of the earshot of the others when Minako finally stopped and turned around to face him. Yuuri held her gaze steadily, trying to keep his face as neutral as only the raging storm of fright in his heart allowed.

“I respect you too much to beat about the bush, Yuuri-kun,” she began and he held his breath, “so I’ll make myself clear. I know.”

He said nought. There were but a few things she could have learnt about him and neither was something he desired to share with the other unless circumstances forced him to. Silence would bring him no absolution for any of those secrets, but he would at least have a few more minutes to pretend. A few minutes were better than nothing.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asked, her eyebrows raised. There was tightness to her posture; something that reminded Yuuri of a cord ready to snap.

“I... am not sure what you’re implying, Minako-sensei,” he said and that alone was the truth. And yet all the years spent in the troupe made him certain she was not going to let it go.

She was looking at him for a while, her gaze unwavering and heavy. Then she sighed and frowned. “The money you use. I know where it comes from.”

Of the things Yuuri feared she might have found out, _that_ – albeit incredibly problematic – was the least of his worries. So he remained quiet, letting her lead the conversation. It was a better choice than unwittingly chasing himself past the point of no return because of a careless word.

“I’m not... _unhappy_ about it,” she said even though she sounded conflicted. It was no surprise given how he got that money over the years. “I can appreciate a clever heist when I see it and you _do_ spend the money on a noble cause, but your thieving days are over as of today.”

There was always a ‘ _but’_ , was it not? “Do you want me to nod and say yes?” he asked, putting much more bravado into his voice than he truly felt. Maybe it was a mistake to act so flippantly, but this – _this_ was something he could deal with. This was not a secret that – if found – would send him running till the end of his days. “I can do that, though we both know what would come of it.”

Her lips twitched upward for the briefest of moments, although it did nothing to quench unease pushing his heart to beat far too fast.

“No, Yuuri-kun,” she said, solemn once again. “I want you to vow upon your ancestors that you won’t even _think_ about stealing the Nikiforovs’ crown jewels.”

He recoiled as if struck. Her watchful eyes did not leave his face for even a second.

“You can’t ask that of me.” He barely recognised his voice. “Not... not that. Not upon _them_.”

Not when the last thing he had seen in his mother’s eyes was disappointment.

“The Crispinos,” Minako suddenly said and began counting on her fingers with artistry that put Chris’s best acting efforts to shame. “The Leroys. The Nekolas. Their crown jewels, gone. Numerous noble families associated with the Nikiforovs. Their fortunes, decimated. It doesn’t take a genius to realise you’re holding a grudge against the Nikiforovs, but—”

“And you love them?” A bitter laugh forced its way through his throat. If he did not let it out, he would fall to his knees, wailing like a newborn babe. “Am I supposed to believe that? Vasily Nikiforov burned our capital to the ground, Minako-sensei! He—My family is dead because of him! How can you even _imply_ you’re surprised by my—”

She held her hand up and that was enough to silence him. “Nishigori-kun, you _listen_ to me,” she said, all traces of amusement gone from her voice. “I detest the Ruthenians as much as any other Nihonian, but this is not about that. We’ll spend the entire winter at the palace. We’ll be watched. If anything goes missing while we’re there, or immediately after we leave, we’ll be the first suspects to question... _if_ there’ll be questioning at all. I have no qualms about you stealing jewels as long as no one connects that to us. You’ve proven time and again you can cover your tracks. However, I will _not_ accept you endangering the rest of the boys if you can’t put your grudge aside for our sake.”

His mouth twisted into a scowl and he made no effort to hide it. “Do you take me for a halfwit, _sensei_?” he asked and for the first time in his life, that honorific held no respect whatsoever. “Do you think I have no control over myself?”

“Do you have control over yourself?”

Ridiculous, that what that question was. And yet it echoed within him, calling forth images from countless dreams he had about snatching the crown right from under Vasily Ivanovich’s nose, of stripping it bare of jewels and watching it melt. Perhaps he would have given it back afterward, a misshapen lump of gold for Vasily to choke on.

“The Ice Wolf,” he finally asked, “did he abdicate?”

“He’s dead. So is his wife.” Minako’s eyes lost their angry glint but remained no less pensive. For a moment, Yuuri thought they held something else, too, but it was gone before he could recognise what it was. “Rumour has it they were assassinated.”

That revelation was like a bucket of cold water. “What? Are you sure?”

She shrugged. “It’s just gossip, you can never know how much truth it holds.”

“Still, it’s...” Yuuri let his voice trail away, unsure how to untangle the knot of thoughts and feelings that news left him with. Somehow, in his studiously cultivated hatred, he had never envisioned the world without Vasily Ivanovich.

He had never expected it would come to this, to Viktor Vasilyevich ascending to the throne. Yuuri only heard rumours of the prince like ice personified, all frozen charm and cold beauty of a winter morning; blues, silvers, and unreachable distances. Only now did he realise how nonsensical that notion was, for to assume his father would rule forever was in equal measures absurdity and utmost improbability. It had loomed over him for so long he forgot how to live without its shadow.

Now Viktor Vasilyevich Nikiforov was going to cast a new shadow and Yuuri did not know if that would prove to be better or worse.

“How are the children?” he asked, tearing his thoughts away from the Nikiforovs. After all, thinking about them never brought him any good. “Have they settled?”

“Yuuri-kun...” Minako rolled her eyes, but he did not budge. At that moment, the kids were more important than Ruthenia’s soon-to-be king and the potential consequences of his ascension to the throne. “My contact told me they’re safe.”

“Where?”

“Countess Orlova’s mansion in a nearby town.” Her nose scrunched as if she did not find that suitable. For Yuuri it was enough. Anything was better than a brothel. “They’ll be employed as servants or, if the Fates allow it, join the countess’s guard.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

“The farther north we go, the fewer favours I’ll be able to call in. You’d be wise to remember that.”

He winced involuntarily. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t have enough money right now to get more of them out.”

“And you won’t have it anytime soon.”

“Minako-sensei...”

“Promise me, Yuuri-kun,” she asked with fervour. “Promise me like I asked you to.”

Rage rose within him like a storm. “You want a vow?” he yelled. He grabbed his dagger without a second thought and brought to his bloodied palm. The cut was less painful than he thought it was going to be. “Fine, I’ll give you a vow. I vow upon the spirits of my parents and my sister that they’ll remain unavenged. I will not fulfil my filial duty even though I’ll be in the presence of the man whose father is the reason they’re dead. Is that enough for you?”

She kept looking at his face, then down at his bleeding hand and up again, as though seeking—what, Yuuri did not know. She must have found it, though, because she gently pried the dagger out of his hand and cleaned it thoroughly before handing it back. And yet all he felt was this hollow abyss in his heart, tugging and twisting inside him.

_(“You will do what is expected of you,” his mother had said, looking at him with a frown on her face and boundless disappointment in her eyes, and he—_

_He had run and now they were dead.)_

“Write me a play,” Minako said. “Whatever it is you’re really holding on to, write a play about it and we’ll perform it at Nikiforov’s court.”

“I...” Yuuri let his voice trail away, with no idea what to say. _‘I don’t know how,_ ’ maybe? _‘I don’t know if it’s wise,_ ’ perhaps. And yet the abyss quietened somewhat after her suggestion, even though it would bring no peace to the ghosts hunting him at nights. “But it’s only two months from now. I thought we’d be playing _Stammi_.”

Sometimes it took Maestro twice as much time to write a complete play. Not to mention the time they would have to spend on rehearsals. There was no music and no costumes, and Yuuri—Yuuri had no idea how to write a play.

He had no idea how to do a great many things, but it had never stopped him before.

Minako’s eyes shone when she patted him on the arm. “Then I suggest you get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: mentions of prostitution, including children.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://naamah-beherit.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/naamahbeherit), and [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/naamahbeherit) in case you'd like to say hello, file a complaint report, or witness occasional floods of photos of dogs and the outer space.


	2. Act I: κατάβασις. Part 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at the word count of this chapter* ... yeeeah, so that happened.
> 
> Music for this chapter is: [_Raddir_ by Ólafur Arnalds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3VG1B7lpALc), [_Burning Sea_ by Daniel Spaleniak](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoNdv6cY-Es), and [_A Quiet Life_ by Teho Teardo  & Blixa Bargeld](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqTjbassv3g). The entire playlist is available [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLsvNq6HhFJxf318nc_3e9-gbnwCYZnnlR).  
> Potential warnings are listed in the end note.
> 
> Beta'd by [Skowronek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skowronek). Thank you ♥

They arrived in the capital in a flurry of snowflakes.

The world was blanketed in grey; that of early winter dusk and the first snowfall, heavy and impenetrable. Guards stood on both sides of the gate they rode under. Yuuri found no comfort in that. His heart remained as heavy as it had been for the past two months.

Sleep had been eluding him and when it did come, he dreamt of the fire more often than not. Phantom hands clawed at him and tore him apart until nothing but his bleeding heart remained. His ears were full of laughter, cold and shrill. He fell asleep hearing it and woke up drowning in it – and perhaps it was only the wind howling over empty meadows, but he still clutched the dagger tightly in his hand.

He had poured everything into the play only for it to return it to him tenfold.

“Those were Nihon’s flags, weren’t they?”

It took a moment for Phichit’s words to tear through the haze of thoughts and ever-simmering unease that filled Yuuri’s head with static and his ears with low, constant ringing.

“Yeah,” he said, thinking back to his own befuddlement. It was yet to pass. “They were.”

“Do you think they’re here because of the coronation?”

He shrugged, hoping it looked natural. “Probably.”

They had passed the encampment on their way to the first city gate. It was sprawled on the side of the road like a forgotten toy, soaked in water and mud. A huge tent stood in the middle of it, surrounded by guards and adorned with flags and insignia Yuuri had not seen in years. The emperor and his family would have stayed there, had they decided to attend the coronation of the king of the neighbouring country.

Had they still lived.

“I wonder why no other delegation is camping outside the city walls.”

Yuuri bit back an instinctive, off-handed remark he would usually hide behind. This was not a random stranger he was talking to; this was Phichit, bright, young, and the closest he had to a friend.

“There were always fights along the border,” he finally said. That alone was the truth; anything else was going to be nothing but assumptions. “Maybe they weren’t invited but showed nonetheless? Or the crown decided to forbid them from entry at the last moment? Your guess is as good as mine.”

The further up the hill they rode, the quieter the city became. The road widened and the stalls disappeared from the pavements. Terraced houses gave way to residences and parks, illuminated by street lamps that hardly broke through the snowfall. Warm light spilled out of the windows, stirring something heavy in Yuuri’s stomach and bringing it forth even though he was not sure what he was feeling. Was it nostalgia after something he no longer had, or perhaps simply cold and tiredness caused by two long months on the road? He could not tell and yet it sank its venomous teeth in his heart and tugged relentlessly.

In the midst of the snake’s nest he stood and yearned for something he dared not name.

Many a guard patrolling the streets did naught to put his already troubled mind at ease. Their stares were boring into his back as the troupe passed them by, all horses and wagons and chatter that echoed in the silence of a winter evening. Was it even normal for so many soldiers to stand guard in the city? He knew not, for his knowledge of Ruthenian customs had never been extensive, but the rational part of his mind could not stop but see it as anything else but the confirmation of rumours surrounding Vasily’s death.

Those rumours were plenty and varied, and Yuuri had heard a lot of them as they made their way through Ruthenia. People in guest houses and taverns along the roads alike talked about nothing else but the king’s death. Some said he had been poisoned, others – that his throat had been slit in his sleep. Many were mourning him, even more openly wept for the late queen.

Yuuri wanted to scream every time he heard nothing but praise about Vasily Nikiforov. Had he known the names of everyone who had died in the fire, he would have kept screaming them all until his throat was bleeding – perhaps then the Ruthenians would have gone silent.

Perhaps his conscience would, too.

“You’re awfully quiet today, _chéri_.”

Yuuri looked up at Chris who at some point slowed his horse’s pace and was now riding between him and Phichit. Yuuri did not even register when that happened.

“More like these past two months,” Phichit said and looked him in the eyes behind Chris’s back. There was something in his gaze Yuuri could not identify, but did not like one bit. “I’m sure it’s just stress, isn’t it?”

He simply nodded, not trusting his voice to be as steady as he would have liked it to be. Stressed he was, indeed; to the point his stomach twisted at the mere thought about what he was going to have to do in two days.

“Then I propose we go out tonight,” Chris said with a blinding grin. “Let’s leave everything at the palace and let Maestro and Madame handle the accommodations. We should acquaint ourselves with the city, don’t you think?”

Yuuri should have expected that. Chris never changed, no matter what his seemingly faithful Raetian admirer might have hoped for. He should have known better than wish for an actor’s steady heart.

“It’s not a bad idea.” Phichit’s smile was almost as wide as Chris’s and in that moment Yuuri knew he lost. “I’m sick of being on the road. I’m craving warmth and good food and—”

“A warm embrace?”

“If it happens, I won’t say no. Yuuri?”

He had absolutely no desire to go gallivanting around, but his will to remain at the palace was even slimmer. With a heavy sigh, he nodded and watched joyful grins blossom on his friends’ faces.

“Maybe we’ll even find your hooded admirer?” Chris’s eyes almost glowed with mischief.

Yuuri groaned and did nothing to stop himself. “First of all, I don’t know what he looks like so I wouldn’t even recognise him.” He watched an ornate gate grow ever closer. The palace loomed in the distance behind it, resplendent and illuminated by numerous light that pierced even the snowfall. Then he thought about that man’s voice that sounded like music to his ears, and the warmth of his hand as he held it. “Second and most of all, I couldn’t care less about him. He was just a patron like many others. The possibility of meeting him again is quite unlikely if not altogether impossible.”

“Who knows, maybe he’ll end up following you around like Matthieu follows Chris?” Phichit’s laugh was hearty and bright, though a wave of pity as always welled in Yuuri at the memory of the merchant’s hopeful eyes and affectionate smile. Chasing Chris was futile; he wondered how long it would take Matthieu to realise that.

“That would be horrendous,” he said, hoping his voice was steady. The gate was so close he could already see the guards stationed in front of it.

“That would be _hilarious_ ,” Chris countered. “I wonder what would win – that Ruthenian’s perseverance or your racism.”

“We’re assuming that man would want anything to do with me, which is rather ridiculous.”

“You simply haven’t paid attention to the way—”

“Quiet, boys!” Celestino’s voice was almost too loud in the stillness of the evening. Yuuri looked up and a lump suddenly formed in his throat, stripping his lungs off air. The gate to the palace grounds stood before them, tall and imposing in the dark. Having completely focused on Chris, Yuuri somehow managed to block out the fact they arrived at their destination. Had it been any other place, he probably would have found it amusing, this immense distraction Chris once again proved to be. Alas, being where they were, he slowly succumbed to dread that consumed his heart at the sight of stony-faced, armoured guards that regarded them with nothing but hostility.

“Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it here,” said one of them. He was leaning against the pike, his posture almost careless. It fooled no one; certainly not Yuuri. “Get lost.”

At that came forth Minako, eyes blazing and chin held high; a queen in her own right. It always amazed Yuuri, the way she held the crowd in her hands with nothing but her own poise. He did not have many things to strive for – never had, actually, for they had been chosen for him once and later, _after_ , he had no dreams of his own left to chase – but that grace and respect— _that_ was something he would gladly possess.

“We have been invited by the crown to entertain your soon-to-be king,” she said calmly as if that happened to them all the time. She always did say that the right impression made half the success. “Surely you must have been told about that?”

Chris, already nearby, guided his horse even closer to Yuuri. “I love this woman,” he said in a stage whisper everyone around him seemed to have chosen to ignore. Yuuri wished he could do the same.

“I’m sure she’s thrilled to know that.”

He glanced around, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. The wall around the palace grounds was tall and stretched as far as he could see, dissolving into darkness. Beyond the gate lay an illuminated pathway to the palace, littered on both sides with lumps of snow. It could not be anything but hedge. If it were any other season, would he see a lush grass behind it? A park, carefully designed to appear unkempt? He did not know what the Ruthenians preferred.

He had long but learnt not to expect paths winding beneath sakura trees.

“Let them in.”

Yuuri immediately turned his attention to the woman who had come to gate, riding a horse that looked almost as disgruntled as she did. When had Minako even stopped talking to the guards? He pinched himself in the arm, hard enough to bruise because anything more delicate than that would have no effect. He knew well what it was like to lose the grip on reality. It had saved him once, back when the pain numbed him to everything else and he just continued pressing on until the snow defeated his determination.

“Lilia Georgiyevna Baranovskaya.” Minako inclined her head slightly in greeting. An image of Yuuri’s father doing the same unexpectedly flashed in his mind and made him clench his hands around the reins. He barely remembered his father’s face. “Have you forgotten to tell your guards about our arrival?”

Lilia scowled with no care for witnesses. It turned her already sharp features into a truly terrifying sight. “Hadn’t you been late, they would’ve let you in without a hassle.”

Minako shrugged. “No one can rush art.” Celestino remained quiet but alert, seemingly content to let her lead the conversation. Yuuri knew better, though. Maestro was just as skilled in convincing people as Minako was. “Not even you, Lilia Georgiyevna.”

Lilia said nothing to that. She simply turned her horse around and started her way back to the palace. They followed her through the fresh snow. Its crunching was the only sound that broke the stillness of the evening. It was almost too quiet, too still.

How Yuuri wished his hands would stop shaking.

“Your horses will be taken to the stables,” Lilia said as she led them to the palace. At least she was reasonable enough to avoid the main entrance. Yuuri tried to imagine them in the hall, soaking wet and smelling of horses and two months on the road, and for the first time in months he felt carefree enough to laugh. He stifled it, even though it was a great feat. “The carts will be stored away, so take everything you need from them. You will be given individual rooms on the third floor of the guest wing with an adjacent bathroom and a dining room for your convenience. Venturing into other floors and the residential wing is forbidden, so is carrying weapons in the premises. You are free to do so outside the grounds, but otherwise you are obliged to deposit whatever weapons you might have with the guards.”

Yuuri’s hand went to the dagger he kept under his cloak. He had never given it up, not once since he got it in his teenage years. One groping too many after a show had been the cause of that impulsive purchase and even though he never truly used it, it gave him an upper hand amidst leery smiles and greedy hands.

“I have a family heirloom with me,” Minako said. She sounded almost bored, seemingly unconcerned by the fact that they were standing in a brightly lit corridor of the Ruthenian royal palace. Never before had they set foot in a place like this to perform. “Do I need to leave it with the guards as well?”

Lilia raised one of her eyebrows. They were perfect, just like her. “Is your family heirloom a weapon?”

“As it happens, yes.”

Would Yuuri have carried something with him as well if his home had not burnt to the ground? Something to remember it by; something that would remind him of his sister’s playful nudge, his mother’s gentle smile, or his father’s warm hand in his.

Time had blurred their faces in Yuuri’s memory.

“Then you answered your own question.” Lilia looked at the approaching guard. His uniform was elaborate but functional, clearly made with physical activity in mind, and his face was solemn as he regarded them. “Captain Altin will be responsible for ensuring your belongings are kept safe. If need be, you shall report to him to take them with you to the city and hand them over upon your return.”

“Those are incredibly harsh security measures, madame,” Chris said even though he had nothing to give away. It was Yuuri who was going to relinquish the only thing that let him feel safe and endure its absence for the remainder of the winter.

Being defenceless in the Nikiforovs’ palace was the last thing he wanted.

“His Royal Highness has guests who need to remain safe. No matter the invitation for the prolonged stay, you are still strangers to us all. You will be wise to remember that, mister...?”

“Giacometti, madame.” Chris gave Lilia a flourishing bow accentuated with a bright smile. At least he did not try to take her hand and kiss it – Altin’s furrowed brow and the protective stance he took at Lilia’s side must have been good enough a deterrent. “Christophe Giacometti at your service.”

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes focused on Chris’s face with a frightening intensity. “Giacometti? _That_ Giacometti?”

Chris’s face brightened impossibly. “Oh, you’ve heard of me then?”

“It was impossible not to.” Lilia’s tone was dry and her gaze reproachful as she took in Chris’s worn clothes and too satisfied a smile. “Then I implore you to refrain from trying to seduce His Royal Highness as I am certain it’s a feat you would be willing to undertake and accomplish.”

If there was the worst possible reaction to that remark, it had to be a wide smile full of pride – and Chris did exactly that. For a moment, Yuuri was tempted to ask for the story behind Lilia’s warning. Chris had been an outgoing seventeen-year-old with a gorgeous smile when he joined the troupe, as tight-lipped about his past as everyone else. Yuuri recalled nothing so drastic that it could have possibly made Chris so infamous at the Ruthenian court.

Curiosity was writhing within him – and still he resisted. He was not going to lower himself to such enormous hypocrisy as to demand to know the story when he would never share his own.

“Is His Highness married?”

As if that ever stopped Chris before.

The look on Lilia’s face could rival that of all demons of Ruthenian mythology. “No.” Although clipped, her voice wavered. If she were to lose her composure, the outburst would be a terrifying thing to witness. “His Royal Highness is not married. And you will be wise to remember to avoid that topic altogether should you find yourself conversing with him.”

A scream rose like a bile in Yuuri’s throat and lodged itself there, suffocating him. He wanted to claw at his neck, rip it open and drag it out – and maybe then he would be able to breathe freely again.

“He won’t mention it again, my lady.” Celestino finally stepped in, just in time to stop Chris from continuing that ridiculous conversation. It had already gone on for too long and Lilia’s hostility was the last thing they needed. Who even was she? Yuuri did not know, but her attire and mannerism spoke volumes. “You have my word.”

She gave him a nod; nothing followed it, not even a single word. In that moment, she could have just as well be a Nikiforov; untouchable, unshakable, born of ice and Ruthenian winters.

After a while, Minako came back with snow clinging to her hair; she was carrying a wooden box in her arms. It was well-kept and long enough for a sword instead of a measly dagger Yuuri held on to. A family crest adorned the lid, but he was unable to make out the details of it against the dark wood. He had never seen that box before, though, of that he was certain – and if surprise on everyone’s faces was anything to go by, neither of them had.

“Minako,” Chris purred, craning his neck to take a better look, “you never fail to surprise me.”

“That’s because you’re young and impressionable.” Sparing him no glance, she handed the box over to the guard patiently and quietly standing beside Lilia. “I expect it will remain untouched, captain.”

Gone was the playful dancer; in that place, a stone-faced woman stood, proud and determined. Yuuri had never seen that look on her face before and had he not known her for years, it would have sparked fear in his heart.

“It will, my lady.” Altin’s voice was even as he spoke, despite the frown that crossed his forehead when he glanced down at the box. “May I have your name so that my people know to whom it shall be given should you want to leave the palace?”

“Okukawa Minako.”

He looked at her again, that frown back and deepening, but in the end nothing was said. Minako met his eyes without flinching. Corners of her mouth rose minutely, but not enough to tell whether it was supposed to be a smile or perhaps something else entirely.

“Anyone else?”

Lilia’s question sliced the heavy silence like a knife. With shaking hands, Yuuri unfastened the dagger from his belt and gave it to the guard. Altin took it with but a glance and put it gently on top of Minako’s box.

“Thank you, sir. May I know your name?”

Yuuri forced himself to unclench his fists. His palms already hurt. “Nishigori,” he said and swallowed, willing his quivering heart to calm. Later he could give in to fear – right now he could not allow his façade to drop. “Nishigori Yuuri.”

A curt nod was all he got in response. Nerves churning incessantly in his stomach abated somewhat.

“I assume no one else carries any weapons?” Lilia asked when nobody came forth after him. Did she look his way or was it just a reflection of light in her eyes? After all, chandeliers hung in dozens above them. “Then please follow me.”

And so they did, through ornate corridors and marble staircases that brought out wonder in everyone’s eyes. To Yuuri, the palace’s decor was garish and suffocating, and the gold dripping from every possible surface gave off a deeply pretentious look. He was drowning under the weight of it all and merely minutes had passed.

“His Royal Highness asked me to relay his deepest apologies for being unable to greet you personally.” Lilia’s voice was echoing in the emptiness of the corridors. Not a single living being was within sight and despite the magnitude of the palace, this apparent desolation was unsettling. “Matters of the crown have held him but he will ensure to seek you out tomorrow to thank you for your arrival.”

Whatever his friends said to that – and they must have, for Yuuri saw their lips move – he did not hear it over the deafening ringing in his ears. A part of him urged him to turn on his heel and run – where, he did not know, but it mattered not. Any forgotten village in the middle of nowhere would have been better, any metropolis buzzing with life where he could be no one but a nameless face in the crowd. Anything but this, this maze of empty corridors and the blinding gleam of gold ornaments. And yet he could not run, even though he wanted to, and neither could he hide. All there was left for him was to unpack his scarce belongings, go out, and drink himself into oblivion no matter how deeply he was going to regret it the following day.

After all, good decisions were not something he had ever been intimately acquainted with.

 

* * *

 

_(His mother’s caress was a thing of warmth, an apotheosis of love in form of a gentle hand threading through his hair until he cried no more._

_“Mama?” His voice was barely louder than a whisper. His throat hurt, scraped raw by wailing that yielded no result._

_“Yes, Yuuri-kun?” Her hand did not stop moving and for that he was glad. At the very least, she was with him. It was a rare occurrence nowadays._

_“I want to be a dancer.”_

_She stilled for a moment and in that few seconds he dreaded she would leave. Who would want a disappointment for a son?_

_(That was what he had been told, the first he had cried during a lesson. The next time, he had choked on the tears and swallowed his sobs, and only ever let himself cry in the privacy of his own bed._

_Would she deem him weak, now that she had seen his tears?)_

_“Oh, Yuuri.” She tugged him closer and he let himself be held, bereft of the will to fight. She smelled like home he had never left but missed nonetheless. “You would’ve been a wonderful dancer.”_

_“Can I...” he mumbled into her chest. “Can I learn?”_

_She kissed the crown of his head and said nothing – and something in his heart died that night.)_

 

* * *

 

Yuuri had slept through the breakfast.

He knew that the very moment he woke up, cold and sore all over, sprawled atop too big a bed. His head was pounding to the rhythm of his erratic heartbeat. It made his eyes water and himself nauseous, even though he dared not move. A distinct, incessant, burning kind of pain between his legs screamed of rushing into sex without long enough a foreplay. He groaned and buried his face in the nearest pillow, trying to block both the sunlight and the stench of alcohol and sweat coming off his rumpled clothes.

It always ended like this when he kept too much in his heart and let himself drown it all in a bottle, hoping for a moment of reprieve from the thoughts that haunted him tirelessly. He always chased after elation that slipped through his fingers and made him grasp at wisps of life he could not have.

No one would ever want someone who had to offer nothing but lies and nightmares.

At least Lilia Baranovskaya had shown them where the bathroom was last night. The Fates were on his side as made his way to it, unsteady on his feet, for he saw and heard no one. Perhaps it was just a cruel joke and no living soul resided in the palace. Perhaps all he would ever encounter here was cold shadows and emptiness bathed in gold, heavy and suffocating. Perhaps it was, in the end, nothing but a sham.

Putting his entire head into the clean yet lukewarm water in the washbasin, Yuuri thought it would not be so bad.

He shed his sticky clothes, remembering phantom hands that had done the same the night before. He had been too drunk to now recall it in its entirety. All he had was flashes of a stranger’s lips latching onto his neck – _‘No marks,_ ’ he had said, grabbed a fistful of that man’s blond hair, and pushed him down onto his knees – and not even a face, let alone a name to complete the memory.

Not for the first time did he wish  it had been more than just a drunken tryst fuelled by lust that had grown too large to be controlled. He wished for a loving caress and gentle touches, and knew he could not have them. There was no place for love in his life as long as he remained in the troupe, and no lover would stand what he was – a broken thing lost amidst the shadows of grief.

He left the bathroom refreshed, even though just as embittered as he had been upon waking up. The entire wing still appeared as deserted as it had been earlier and Yuuri was grateful for that. He had been craving solitude for a while now. No chatter or laughter, no commands to run faster, talk louder, smile wider – only he and the silence that made him want to sink to his knees and weep in joy.

Maybe he should find a house somewhere in the highlands of Nihon, when nothing ever happened and no one ever visited. Maybe then his weary heart would finally know contentment.

The dining room he passed without a glance, nauseous at the mere thought of food. He let himself wander, encased in gold and splendour of the palace, both of which were over-abundant to the point of being distasteful. All that wealth – wasted on trinkets and ornaments. How many children would he be able to save with that much money? Hell, he would have bought a mansion, hired a private tutor, and given them a good start in life, for that was what they had been denied.

Fumes of disgust simmering within him only went down when Yuuri heard a distant echo of footsteps somewhere from the other end of the corridor. His heart lurched suddenly, clenching in desperate need for a few more minutes of solitude. Ridiculous, truly, that he was so unwilling to give up on something so fleeting and so, so out of his reach.

He jumped through the first open door and left it only slightly ajar behind himself. Was it enough to discourage whoever it was outside? It had to be. He had to—

_(—see the commotion, minuscule at first and then frantic, gaining on the urgency. He stayed quiet and then, in a brief moment of silence, slipped through the door and ran towards the gardens, towards the city – towards freedom.)_

—find a place to hide, but the room he was standing in was empty, save for the chaise by the windows. A music box was tucked in the corner of it, upturned and covered in a thin layer of dust. He brushed his finger over it. The lack of gold ornaments and filigree in this room was almost jarring in contrast to what he had seen elsewhere in the palace. An ode to simplicity it was, with a wooden floor and walls painted white.

It could not have been more than a minute or two, but Yuuri already found this place to his liking. Its spaciousness invited impulsiveness and he heeded its call. The first step he made was uncertain, shaky, his entire body thrown out of balance by the pain throbbing in his head. He followed discoloured patches etched into the wood as he moved, dancing along a ghost of the past he did not know.

_(They went to a theatre once to see a wandering troupe of dancers renowned across the continent. The lights were dim, the music quiet, and he had to lean over the balcony to even see the stage, but when the dancers moved..._

_When they moved, he forgot how to breathe.)_

His legs carried him all over the room – a lunge here, a pirouette there – and something welled in his heart, light and bright, pushing the worries aside and leaving him giddy.

_(He turned to face his mother who was watching him with a soft smile._

_“Mama,” he said, “did you see that?”_

_“I did, Yuuri-kun.”_

_“Mama,” he said—)_

He danced for no one and he danced for himself; he danced as if the world were to end tomorrow.

_(—“I want to be like them.”_

_The smile fell from her face as if it were never there.)_

Someone was clapping. His eyes snapped open and his hand shot to his belt to grab the dagger that was not there.

A man Yuuri had never seen before was standing in the doorway. His bright eyes were glistening, full of wonder and something else, something heavy; a kind of affection that brought a blush to Yuuri’s cheeks. A fringe lay against the left side of the man’s face, feather-light and looking so effortlessly unstyled that it had to have taken long, long minutes to make it appear so. Yuuri wanted to run his hand through it, to thread it between his fingers like molten silver.

The man let his hands fall down to his sides. “I thought your acting was magnificent,” he said and in that moment, Yuuri knew. “But your dancing? You’re the embodiment of the goddess of music herself.”

No wonder his gaze was so imploring and so full of yearning. It had been the same that day months ago at the inn. Yuuri had disregarded it then. Now, when the man was no longer a hooded, faceless stranger, he was not so keen on doing it again.

It truly was a handsome face, the man had been blessed with. Yuuri would not mind learning the shape of it with his fingers.

“My lord.” He curtsied, keeping their eyes locked. To hell with those last moments that had soured their last and only meeting. If only that man would keep looking at Yuuri as if he was being presented with a treasure, Yuuri was willing to not only forgive, but also forget. After all, second chances were not a blessing he often received – and this particular one was already almost too good to be true. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Yuuri did not expect to _ever_ see him again, that man who had seemed willing to drink every word that fell from Yuuri’s mouth, but he was never going to admit that. And still even giving words to his surprise was enough for the man’s lips to part wordlessly for a moment.

“You... didn’t?” he asked and then burst out laughing, even though Yuuri’s words hardly merited such a reaction.

It stung indeed to be laughed at. Yuuri held his chin high and fixed the man with an offended glare. “Do I amuse you, my lord?”

“In the best way.” The man stopped laughing, but his eyes retained their warmth. It was a terrible thing, to care for an actor. Yuuri knew that, but did not say a single word. “Your presence here is a source of joy to be cherished.”

To indulge him was a crime, and yet Yuuri was unwilling to resist. So few things brought him happiness and maybe this could prove to be a fine way to make the stay at the palace enjoyable. “One would think you have missed me, my lord, even though we’ve met only once in passing.”

“Didn’t I tell you I would treasure the memory of our meeting? That should the days grow grim, it would be a beacon of light to lead me out of the darkness?”

Yuuri’s face heated up despite his every intention of taking and keeping the lead in their conversation. His heart was light, filled with giddiness, and in the turmoil of the last two months he had forgotten what it felt like. “What an unrepentant flatterer you are, my lord,” he said, unable to contain the smile that stretched his lips wide. He must have looked like a lunatic. “Have you ever considered writing poetry for a living?”

The light in the man’s eyes dimmed. Yuuri wished to bring it back, cradle and nurture it for perpetuity.

“Alas, I have never had a choice.” The man took a step forward as if pulled on a string that got shorter and shorter with every breath. “And ‘tis not a flattery but truth. You deserve nothing but it.”

Yuuri’s knees trembled as he stepped forth as well. They got ever closer, like two celestial bodies destined to crash. He was more than willing to let that happen, consequences be damned. “Have you truly missed me that much?”

When the man spoke, his voice was breathless. “Terribly. I...” His eyes focused somewhere below Yuuri’s jaw and his face fell. It happened in a blink of an eye and what used to be elation, was now a reflection of abject misery. Yuuri wanted to reach out and smooth the lines of hurt of his gorgeous face.

Instead, he watched the man go to the chaise and pick up the music box. He turned it over in his hands, fingers brushing along whatever ornaments adorned the lid. There was something intimate and wistful in the way he held it, a history Yuuri was not privy to. Was it one of a lost love? Or perhaps of childhood merriment and joy? Had he known, he would have written verses upon verses about it and whisper them to the man’s ears in hopes to bring out that wonderful smile again.

What did he mean to say? Why did he stop?

“My mother used to come here to dance.” He gently put the box back into the corner between the pillow and the armrest of the chaise. His fingers lingered on it as he remained facing the windows rather than Yuuri. “When the court became too much, too loud, she would come here and dance. My father joined her sometimes, even though his duties rarely allowed it. He’d sit here and watch and—”

He broke off and straightened his slumped shoulders. Yuuri did not dare to break the silence, not when something insistently pulsed in his mind; a thought not yet formed he could not grasp. He had no words of comfort to offer, not when the memory of his own parent was still a festering wound eating away at his heart. And then—

 _He’s dead_ , Minako had said that fateful morning. _So’s his wife_.

Yuuri’s heart, up till now soaring in happiness, plummeted to the ground. Of course it would end like this. Of course the greatest joy he had felt in days – months, _years_ even – would be snatched right out of his fingers.

_(They said the boy had eyes like ice and hair like snow. They said he was born of winter._

_They said he was heartless.)_

When he thought about it, the irony was boundless.

Unable to run, Yuuri did the only thing he could – he bowed. Eyes fixed on the floor and burning with tears he could not shed, not now, he listened to the thundering sound of his heartbeat. It was thumping in his chest, leaving him trembling and breathless. “Your Highness,” he said through a parched throat and gritted teeth. Oh, how he wished he were wrong. “Forgive me, I... I did not realise who you are.”

He heard a gasp and then the man – Viktor Nikiforov, he reminded himself; it was Viktor Vasilyevich Nikiforov, the crown prince of Ruthenia, not just an incredibly handsome and unimportant nobleman who happened to take a fancy in him – was in front of him.

Viktor Vasilyevich Nikiforov, once upon a time a boy scorned.

“Please, there’s no need for that.” The prince’s voice was imploring and his hands wrung together in front of him. Yuuri glanced at him, but did not break the bow. How could he bear the sight of those blue eyes trained on him? “You aren’t at fault and I didn’t mind it in the slightest.”

Yuuri bit back a fit of hysterical laughter that welled at the back of his throat, choking him. What a comedy it would have been, an actor treating a soon-to-be-king with familiarity that broke all boundaries of propriety. Were it torture and hanging that would follow, or perhaps a simple beheading to ensure the reputation of the crown?

And awful demise, either of those. Madame and Maestro would be so disappointed.

“Still, I offer my sincere apologies for that transgression.” Those boots in front of him – polished and well-kept even if obviously worn for years. He would remember those boots for the rest of his life. “I can only assure Your Highness it wasn’t intentional.”

He flinched when the prince touched his arm; gently, so, so gently Yuuri was unsure if he was not imagining it. He found himself being guided into standing straight once more and did not resist it even though he wanted to. Given the circumstances, the outcome would have been disastrous. He refused to look up, though, and still kept his wavering vision on the prince’s boots. Cold was spreading in his body like a parasite.

“Do not treat me any differently, I beg you.” Beg? A Nikiforov begging for something? What a jest. “I am still an admirer of your talent and incomparable beauty, nothing changed that. Just because... Surely you have felt a—a connection between us. I’ve seen it in your eyes.”

How was Yuuri even going to do his part in the play now? All of a sudden it seemed like a feat impossible to achieve.

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but that would be improper.” He was a coward, he knew that – always had been, in fact – and his greatest act of cowardice still haunted him to this day. Had he been brave, he would have looked up and watched the prince react to that. Would light go out in his eyes? He had never seen eyes so expressive before. “May I be excused? I must... Rehearsals. I have to...”

He did not wait for a reaction; instead he just bowed again and scurried for the door. Perhaps if he never stopped running, he would end up out of the capital and away from the trap of Viktor Nikiforov’s blue eyes.

The prince was quicker – he grabbed Yuuri’s arm and this time Yuuri could do nothing but look at him, at those glistening eyes and desolate features. Something in him twisted in pain that had nothing to do with the iron grip on his arm.

“Did you tell them your name?” the prince asked and his voice carried an echo of an old hurt.

Yuuri refused to dwell on the reason why the prince had held on to that part of their previous exchange. It would imply acknowledging that his interest in Yuuri was more than just a fleeting of fancy and that was a conundrum for another day.

“Whom?” he inquired instead, for the question he had been asked made no sense. Nothing this morning did.

“The person who left that mark on your neck.”

Damn it all to hells and back, had he not explicitly said ‘ _No marks’_?

“Does it matter?”

The grip on his arms, already unrelenting, tightened even more. “Yes.”

He considered lying. In all likelihood, it would have made his life easier. It definitely would have been more gentle on Viktor Nikiforov’s heart.

Yuuri had never cared for it and he was not going to start now; not even when anguish written all over the prince’s face brought him nigh physical pain. He had made his choice a long time ago and changing it meant spitting in the face of the price he had paid. So he said, “I don’t know,” and _that_ finally made the prince recoil as if struck. Perhaps he was, in a way; after all, Yuuri wielded his words as a weapon with proficiency born of years of experience.

Still, he bowed before he left the room, because some instincts were impossible to resist. And if he started running the moment he stepped into the corridor, and did not stop until his legs gave out – that was something between him and the eerie emptiness of the palace.

 

* * *

 

Viktor was nibbling on his neck, chasing Yuuri’s pulse with teeth and lips. Yuuri gasped, holding tightly onto the sheets with one hand, and to silky strands of Viktor’s hair with the other. Clutching moonlight between his fingers would probably feel the same.

“What—what are you doing?” Was that even his voice? Never before had it sounded so breathless, so desperate.

Viktor stopped for a moment and then started kissing his way up to the corner of Yuuri’s lips – up the neck, along his jaw, all over his cheekbone. His mouth left a tingling trail in its wake before he stilled for a moment, pressed cheek to cheek with Yuuri. Yuuri used that moment to let go of the sheets and put that hand on Viktor’s back instead, stroking it gently. He could feel the tension in the muscles beneath his fingertips, tight and nearly trembling.

“I can’t stand the sight of it.” Yuuri was barely able to make out those words, whispered fervently into his skin. It was burning under Viktor’s lips.

 _He_ was burning under Viktor’s lips and reverent touches. His heart soared, fuelled by tenderness he had never experienced from his previous ephemeral lovers.

“Then how about you do— _ah_.” Viktor chose that precise moment to _finally_ roll his hips. Pleasure sparked to life at the base of Yuuri’s spine and he arched his back to angle them both better, to get even closer and melt into the embrace. “That. Do _that_.”

And Viktor did as asked, setting a slow, maddening pace that reduced Yuuri to a writhing, whimpering mess. He was begging – to stop or to continue, he knew not. The world shrank to a size that fit only them both, tangled in sheets of this too big a bed. The only sounds in this tiny universe of theirs were ragged breaths and desperate moans, and occasional slap of skin against skin as Viktor slid out of him and then slammed right back in. Stars erupted under Yuuri’s closed eyelids every time he did that and it only made him hold on tighter.

Yuuri wrapped his legs around Viktor’s waist and squeezed, relishing in a needy whimper Viktor let out at that. It was that of a control nearly lost, of the world forgotten in favour of drowning in pleasure. Time itself could have run out and they would not even notice.

“You’re mine,” Viktor whispered hoarsely into Yuuri’s ear. His thrusts quickened, bringing Yuuri ever closer to the precipice. How was he still able to form coherent words? “You’ve always been mine.”

There was something primal in his voice, something that filled Yuuri’s heart with as much delight as it did with dread. Desperation bled out of Viktor’s every move, some kind of frantic chase after—what, exactly? What else could he be looking for but his own release?

Then he drove his dick deeply into Yuuri, angling his hips _just_ right, and that was it. Yuuri came all over his stomach and Viktor’s chest, his orgasm leaving him breathless and shaking. He clung onto Viktor as if his life depended on it, and Viktor in turn buried his face into the crook of Yuuri’s neck. “Tell me,” he asked, suddenly stone-still, “why did you run away?”

Yuuri’s eyes snapped open. And then—

“Why did you run away?” asked his mother, her kimono hanging in tatters off her body. Ash covered her skin and gathered in piles around her feet. And then—

“Why did you run away?” asked his father, rivulets of blood flowing from between his fingers. No matter how hard he pressed them to the wound in his abdomen, it did not stop. And then—

“Why did you run away?” asked his sister. Her eyes were unseeing, burnt out just like most of her face. And then—

“Why did you run away?” asked Viktor, his body small and thin, that of a fey youth he must have been once. Long hair fell down his shoulders and obscured his face. And then—

Yuuri raised his hand and pushed Viktor’s hair away and it was his own face he saw and those were his eyes that cried blood and ash and those were his own hands that sank into his back and tore it open and then—

 

* * *

 

He woke up screaming, drenched in sweat and tangled in the duvet. The frigid air brought out goose bumps on his burning skin and did nothing to cool it down. He sat up, breath coming out in aborted gasps that hurt his lungs and did not give him enough air. His shirt was clinging to his body, and so did his sleeping pants. They were sticking to his groin as if he were a teenager again, driven by hormones and an over-active imagination.

He let out a pitiful, weak sound he hated himself for. It hurt, all of it; his heaving chest and desolate heart, his closed eyes that spilled tears regardless, the throat he scraped raw with laments.

He tore his clothes off and did not care if they ended in shreds somewhere out of his sight. All of a sudden, the bed was too hot to remain in, and the multitude of pillows too suffocating to allow so much as taking even a single breath. Up he got, away from it, away from phantom hands of a dream he still felt on his skin, and curled on the floor.

He wrapped his own arms around himself as he wept, and wished there was someone to hold him.

 

* * *

 

Darkness had given way to a misty, grey dawn and then a sunless morning by the time Yuuri finally got up from the floor. Every muscle in his body hurt, worn out by cold and adrenaline that had taken far too long to drop. He had watched the day be born, all the while exhaustion settled in his mind and got a hold of his heart.

Today marked the last day of rehearsals. Tomorrow they would stage the play for everyone in the court to see. The prince himself would be there, too, and now more than ever that thought sparked in Yuuri an urgent need to pack his meagre belongings and disappear into the snowfall outside, leaving behind both the troupe and those blue eyes that followed him even into dreams. Was it too much to hope for a reprieve at least there?

He knew it was. It was his own doing.

The exuberant laughter he was following died the moment he entered the dining room. His heart skipped a beat. As much as he sometimes craved solitude and quiet, breakfasts were not a place for those. Breakfasts were meant to be loud, filled with Minami’s infectious enthusiasm and Chris’s half-serious innuendos. Now Minami was looking anywhere but at Yuuri, sporting a blush that turned even the tips of his ears crimson, and Chris’s lips slowly stretched in a leery grin.

Yuuri found it revolting.

“Ah, and here I thought you wouldn’t make it in time today.” Chris’s expression was expectant, but whatever hopes for an answer he had, they were futile. “Good for me we didn’t bet on that.”

Yuuri sat down and reached for the first edible thing within reach. No matter what it was, it would taste like ashes. “Unlike yesterday, I haven’t been sleeping off a night out.” Perhaps he should have gone out, though; nightmares would not have come if he had drunk himself into a black-out.

“And yet you look like haven’t slept a wink.” If anything, Chris’s grin got even wider. At this particular moment in his life, Yuuri was tempted to wipe it off Chris’s face with a fist. “Rough night?”

Yuuri’s grip was white-knuckled on the delicate glass filled with a freshly pressed apple juice. Where did they even get apples at this time of year? “You can say that.”

“Aha! Pray save us from eleven hells of suspense and tell us: did you get the royal dick?”

The glass shattered to pieces in Yuuri’s hand. A flurry of movement exploded around him. Someone pried his hand open to reveal a mess of blood and shards of glass, while another person hastily cleared the table around him, pushing the finery away with too much careless strength. And yet Yuuri paid them no heed, hearing nothing except the pounding of his heart.

Chris went white as a sheet. For a moment neither of them spoke.

 “How dare you?” It was Yuuri who broke the silence. His voice sliced through it like an executioner’s axe, heavy and swift. He was shaking as he rose to his feet in a clatter of overturned furniture and cutlery. Someone grabbed him, but he shook that hand off. Only Chris mattered; stupid, careless Chris who was watching him with a mouth hanging agape. Rarely did he get speechless. “How dare you speak to me like that? How dare you imply—”

“Sit _down_.” Celestino pushed him back into his chair. His hands were a leaden weight on Yuuri’s shoulders. He could have shrugged them off. He _should_ have shrugged them off, got up, and—do what, exactly? What could possibly make this better? “All of you, out. Go clear your heads.”

Chris was the first to jump to his feet. And then, much to Yuuri’s surprise, he stopped and gripped the back of his chair. “Yuuri, I—”

“ _Out_ , Giacometti.” Steel underlay Celestino’s voice, immovable and unshakeable. His usual jovial demeanour was gone; in its place was nothing but determination. Yuuri could count on one hand how many times in thirteen years he had seen Maestro like that. “Go practise your lines.”

Only when everyone but Yuuri and Minako scurried out of the dining room did Celestino loosen his grip on Yuuri’s shoulders. His hands were like hooks that kept Yuuri sitting straight; without them, he collapsed face-first into the table, his breathing quickening with each passing second. Was there a limit to how fast he had to breathe? He had yet to find out.

“Whatever it is between the two of you, I want you to sort it out before the show tomorrow,” Maestro finally spoke from some undetermined distance above him. His voice came to Yuuri as if through water, muffled and almost inaudible. Funny, there was no water around them; only the emptiness of the palace and the world narrowing in Yuuri’s vision. Would its disappearance bring him peace, or was it _him_ who had to disappear?

“We’re not...” he wheezed, breath coming in and out in short, shallow gasps. His chest hurt as if someone was bending his ribs inwards. “He’s...”

“I don’t care,” Celestino said and it was the truth, was it not? He never pried, not once; if he had, would he have taken in a boy on the verge on bleeding out to death and given him a home under his wing? He had never asked, and for that alone Yuuri would never be able to repay his debt. “You’re both professionals. Act like them.”

In thirty one hours, Yuuri would walk onto the stage to perform the most difficult role in his entire career under the watchful eyes of the prince. Up till then, Yuuri hoped he would hear no word come out of Chris’s mouth.

“Now go look for someone to take care of those cuts.” Celestino’s voice was quieter now, almost tired. This place seemed to have that effect on everyone; maybe they too were drowning in the emptiness of the golden splendour. “I’ll fetch someone to clean up this mess.”

Minako rose to her feet and levelled Yuuri with an unimpressed stare. Every fibre of his being wanted to hide from it. “Come, Yuuri-kun,” she said, “let me patch up that hand of yours.”

Wordlessly he followed her to her room, as dripping with gold as his own. The only difference were clothes strewn all over the furniture. He kept his own packed still, holding on to the ridiculous notion they would leave before the winter truly settled despite all. That hope was all he had.

A silken black kimono was lying atop the duvet, carefully straightened. Gold koi fish and dragons adorned it, sewn with mastery and precision he had not seen in thirteen years. He wanted to run his fingers over the fabric and embroidery, to feel the smoothness of silk under his palm. He used to press his face into his mother’s legs, a long time ago, and hide from the world in the layers of silk she had always worn.

“Carrying it all over the continent is such a hassle,” Minako said. She must have noticed him staring, so he turned his gaze away. “Sit down and give me your hand.”

She was gentle but not hesitant; her fingers moved with purpose and experience as she cleaned his wound off blood and glass. He only gritted his teeth when she began stitching the cuts. It was not unbearable; he had suffered much worse than that.

“You’ll have to wear gloves tomorrow.”

“I’ll speak with Minami.”

She glanced at him, her face impassive. “You have that boy wrapped around your finger.”

Minami’s twinkling eyes and wide smile flashed unbidden in his mind. “Not intentionally.”

This time when Minako looked up at him, she held his gaze like she did his hand – in an iron grip that had more to do with willpower than physical strength. He could break neither even if he tried. “He’s not the only one. You know that, don’t you?”

He flinched violently, tugging at the still unfinished stitches. “Of all the people, sensei—”

“I’m not going to be as crude as Christophe was.” As if that was going to put his mind at ease. “I’ll simply ask. Did you take the crown prince to your bed last night?”

“I most certainly did _not_.”

She was looking at him for a long while, her gaze unreadable. Even after all these years, Minako still remained a mystery to him.

“He seems to be quite taken with you.” Her attention was back on his hand, but it did not fool him. He knew she would listen to and remember every word he was going to say. “Any other person would take advantage of it.”

In his dream, he had fallen apart under skilled hands and fervent kisses. In real life, he clenched his uninjured hand. “I’m not interested.”

“It could be beneficial to your career,” she pointed out as if he was unaware of that. What better patron could be there than the future king?

“If that’s what my career depends on, then maybe I should just let it die.” That thought had been on his mind for the past two months. It grew ever stronger, fed by grief and regrets. He tore himself open for this play and putting himself back together turned out to be infinitely more difficult. “Maybe I should...” _let go_ , he thought, but let it remain unspoken.

Some thoughts were not meant to be shared.

Minako let go of his hand and went over to the bedside table to grab an unmarked bottle that certainly was not something to be found in the palace’s kitchens. When she poured him a cup, its smell reminded Yuuri of late evenings in his father’s office.

“It’s not even midday yet, sensei,” he admonished. The tiny porcelain cup was steady in his hands.

She raised a brow. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.” He brought it to his nose again and inhaled deeply. “Where did you even get sake in this city?”

She settled in the armchair across him. A tiny frown marred her otherwise indifferent expression. “I met with one of my business partners yesterday. He gave me that bottle as a gift.”

She did not take a sip yet, so neither did he. “You told me none of your business partners resided this far north,” he said. She had made that clear the first time he asked for help in finding a place for the children to stay.

“I didn’t expect to meet him here.” She seemed lost in thought for a while, and many a crease marred her usually ageless face. “And he certainly didn’t expect to see me, either, so I suppose the surprise was mutual.”

“Is it... bad, that he’s here?” It was not the question Yuuri truly wanted to ask, but prying for details she did not want to share never ended well. Sometimes she said nothing; and sometimes she did, but demanded an equal exchange for every given answer. He was not going to participate in that game.

“I’m yet to find out,” she said, still making no move to touch her sake. In that moment it hit him – he did not even know what her business was.

It probably told more about him than her, that he had not asked even once in ten years.

“Maybe you should go back to Nihon if your people act without your knowledge?” His father had once said it was best to keep one’s friends close, but enemies even closer. Yuuri did not know to which category Minako’s business partners belonged, but apparently all they brought her was frustration. “Remind them you’re not that absent after all.”

She smiled at him as if they shared a secret. “That’s exactly what I’m planning on doing after this winter ends. And,” she took the cup and Yuuri did the same under her expectant gaze, “since you seem to be reconsidering your acting career, maybe you’d like to come with me? I could use someone of your intelligence and skill.”

“I’m not—”

“Do _not_ insult me by claiming you don’t know what I’m talking about. And moreover, don’t insult yourself. Or your decisions. You’ve made them, so own them.”

If she only knew. “I don’t recall a single _good_ decision,” he said, his voice cold and distant. It sounded somewhat familiar, although the reason for it eluded him.

Had he known the outcome all those years ago, would he have done it? Or would he have bowed and said nothing, and taken the nightmare into his hands when the time came?

“We’ll stay here for a while.” Unless he ran. It was a tempting thought. “You have time to consider my offer.”

She drank the sake, and he followed suit. It tasted of home, even though he had never got old enough to ever drink it with his parents.

He had never got a chance to do a great many things with his family. Would he have known the warmth of his mother’s embrace again? Would he have got to know his father as a man and not just the figure in the background, plagued by a perpetual lack of time and too many obligations to so much as even talk to his own son? Would he have danced with his sister at her wedding?

Would he have been happy?

He clenched his fists – tightly, desperately – and let the pain in his injured palm anchor him to the present. He was supposed to dance on the morrow, to take the prince’s hand and lead him down the path where nothing but heartbreak awaited. It was only fitting he would suffer through that as well.

“Tell me, Yuuri-kun,” Minako asked; he raised his head and found her looking at him— _into_ him, almost, “where was your family’s inn again?”

“The, uhm, merchant’s district in the northern part of the capital. At the square where that gingko tree stood.” He remembered it burn, a dozen-metres-high inferno of a trunk and leaves falling down like dying fireflies.

Minako hummed and that was that. Yuuri was almost disappointed with her silence. Her wit was usually just as quick and sharp as her tongue. He was seeing neither this morning.

His legs were shaking as he stood up. “I should—”

“Have you heard Ishida-san is ruling over Nihon now?”

He all but fell into the armchair again as his mind went blank. “I—what?”

“Ishida Naganari,” she said, her eyes focused on the kimono. The embroidery gleamed in the morning sun. “Have you heard of him?”

_(“Ruthenians believe demons dance in the sky and set it aflame. They say that when the time is right in the midst of winter, those demons descend to Earth and roam it in search of a body to inhabit.”_

_He could almost see it in his mind’s eye – a creature of ice lurking in the darkness, claws out and teeth bared, coming ever closer. Its hand would close around his own, so cold that it burnt._

_“The Ice Wolf was born in winter. A savage, that’s what he is. A traitor who raised a hand to his own king and now calls himself one.”_

_He dared not speak. He remembered well enough what had happened the last time he spoke out of turn._

_“It’s no wonder his son was born in winter, too.”)_

“I...” Yuuri swallowed. “I haven’t, no.”

“Apparently he came uninvited and wasn’t even allowed entry into the city.” Minako’s voice, serene and almost detached, did naught to calm Yuuri’s raging nerves. He felt them creep up on him, ready to steal his breath away the moment he lost control over them. “You must’ve seen the encampment on our way here.”

He had, had he not? The encampment and the chrysanthemum flag waving proudly over the tent occupied by a man who did not belong there. No one did; no living soul was worthy of ascending to the empty throne. “I was wondering why they haven’t been let in.”

“My business partner told me that Ishida-san was furious when his request to attend the coronation was denied. Supposedly it’s a wonder he didn’t order his people to attack the city.”

“That... That would be suicidal.”

Minako ran her finger along the rim of her cup. “I’ve only ever heard stories, but Ishida-san was never known for being cautious. He’s rumoured to be shrewd and intelligent, yes, but definitely not cautious.”

A memory of his father’s face contorted in rage flashed in Yuuri’s mind. “If you say so,” he managed through the clenched, dry throat. He would have given piles of gold for a glass of water.

“He also told me,” she went on, either oblivious or uncaring of his struggle to maintain as much composure as he could, and he truly hoped for the former, “that the emperor and his family are alive and remain here at the palace.”

The world shattered into nothingness around him. Yuuri just gaped at her, speechless, hearing nothing over the sound of his own heartbeat. It was trashing in a frenetic rhythm in his chest, about to burst out of it. How many times had he mused on the possibility that the Fates had spared at least a few from the fire? That maybe someone, somewhere, had run just like him.

He kept that kind of wishful thinking to himself, locked deep within his heart, for to indulge in it too often meant surrendering to futile hopes that would only break him further.

“That’s impossible,” he croaked. He kept his eyes down, fixed on the marble floor beneath his feet. There was a crack in it, long and winding. “I... I saw the fire. The palace—the city. Everything burnt. _Everything_.”

And everyone.

“And yet it seems the imperial family has survived.” She let out a humourless laugh, but Yuuri did not look up. He _could_ not look up, because if he moved, he would have lost these last shreds of composure he pretended to have. “My business partner was rather unwilling to share that information with me, but he knows better than lie to me.”

Yuuri gripped the armrest so hard he nearly ripped the stitches. It took no longer than a blink of an eye for him to get up and hurry to the door. He felt Minako’s surprised eyes follow his every move as if she was holding his hand and walking right beside him. “I must tell Minami about the gloves.” His palm hurt, but he did not trouble himself over it. It was nothing compared to the void in his chest. “Thank you for... my hand.”

“Yuuri-kun?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll ask this only once. Is there something you wish to tell me?”

_‘He knows better than lie to me.’_

“No.”

The daze he plunged into remained with him until he found himself kneeling in the snow somewhere in the palace gardens. Blood trickled steadily from his palm onto the ground. He probably left a trail of it behind himself and if circumstances had been different, he would have cared. Yet as he was now, he raised his eyes to the overcast sky and hoped for the falling snow to hide the trails of tears on his face as his body—and his heart—eventually went numb.

 

* * *

 

Behind a heavy purple curtain, the ballroom was drenched in gold and light.

Yuuri could not help but push it aside just so to peek at the room that seemed to stretch infinitely in front of his eyes. Tables stood along its walls, littered with silverware and crystal glasses so delicate they appeared to be made of ice. A swarm of servants was rushing to and fro one table and another, fixing what needed not to be fixed. They crowded the empty space in the midst of the ballroom as if it were but a tiny shack and not grandeur destined to steal everyone’s breath away.

Within the next hour, Yuuri would go out there and dance, and then perform one-in-a-lifetime role he had written for himself. Already shivering and feverish, the awareness of what he was about to do only spurred his heart to beat faster and faster until the rush of blood was nigh unbearable. His hands were cold despite the gloves he was wearing, and his right palm throbbed because of the stitches that barely held together after the day before.

Chris was by his side, silent, and Yuuri was grateful for that. Tomorrow they could argue over his nonsensical assumptions. Today, they had to act and Yuuri would rather give himself to the prince than let the two months of hard work go to waste by delivering anything less than a stellar performance.

“I love the mask. It suits you.”

The last thing he was expecting of Chris was to speak before the play started. The camaraderie between them, born of years of travelling together, had dissolved into a mere shadow of itself after that disastrous breakfast. Yuuri was under no delusions it would ever be the same, for a thing once broken was going to carry the signs of it for the rest of its days. He could pick the pieces and mend it with gold, but in the end it would be just that – a shadow of what it used to be, made of shards and disappointment.

Some words could not be forgotten.

He smoothed the fabric over his eyes. The mask covered the upper half of his face, sewn from black silk and adorned with feathers and silver embroidery to match his costume. Minami had despaired at the request, but delivered it regardless. When he gave it to Yuuri, his fingers had been covered in a multitude of needle marks.

“Thank you.” The servants began to leave the ballroom and his hand clenched around the curtain. The time to perform was almost upon them and for once he could not run away. “I thought it would fit the theme.”

“It does.” Silence fell between for a while again. Perhaps it was too much to expect an apology. “Do you think they’ve crowned him yet?”

Gods, he hoped so. They had already been waiting for far too long.

And yet the time seemed to have come to a standstill, stretching into eternity measured by Yuuri’s wheezing breaths and racing heart. Apprehension sat heavy in his chest, almost suffocating. Not only was his hand hurting now – a steady, pulsing pain grew ever stronger in his back and legs. The cuts had long but closed and scarred, the bones – grown back together, and the pain remained only a shadow in his memories; yet there he was, feeling lashes opening his skin anew.

He closed his eyes, wishing the memories—the world itself—away. No snow fell on him, no blood flowed out of his wounds. He raised his head and called forth the warmth of summer and the caress of a lover’s hands, exploring his body like a master virtuoso. His own hands always paled in comparison.

Maybe once this was over – once the hellish winter would have passed – he would find someone willing to see past the scars and lies. Someone to settle with and find a quiet place where they could just... be.

 _The imperial family has survived_ , rang in his ears again. It never truly stopped, playing over and over in Minako’s indifferent voice. How had she even accomplished that? His own voice would have broken under the magnitude of that statement.

 _The imperial family has survived_ , rang in his ears and his heart wept even though his eyes remained dry. He had no more tears to shed.

Had they settled here as guests, in this place that used to be spoken about only in whispers? Or perhaps they had been taken prisoners after the fire and brought to Ruthenia as nothing more but spoils of war to remind Vasily Nikiforov about yet another successful conquest?

“Yuuri.”

He opened his eyes only to see the guards standing on both sides of an open door. An older soldier accompanied them. His uniform was adorned with more medals than Yuuri could count. The scowl on his face seemed to be permanently etched into his features, its creases deep and prominent all over his forehead and mouth. Had the Ice Wolf been alive, Yuuri would have assumed that was him, hardened by Ruthenian winters until nothing but ice and steel remained.

A crowd followed soon after him and trickled into the ballroom like an endless stream of colourful fabric and precious stones. Yuuri recognised a few of them, those he had met upon one commissioned play or another. The Crispino twins were resplendent as always, princess Sara almost glowing in the flickering light. She had not changed since that fateful morning he had found her at their table, chatting the morning away while her brother led an entire garrison in a frantic search party. He walked behind her, now, wearing a simple silver circlet on his head. The contrast between it and his old crown was staggering.

Yuuri could point out every single difference. After all, he had stolen Michele Crispino’s old crown and watched it melt.

All the people gathered in the ballroom remained standing, having taken their places by the tables in order that was most likely carefully planned but told Yuuri absolutely nothing. Ruthenian etiquette was a mystery to him, just like the country itself, and he had never bothered to learn about either of them. Now he hated not knowing, forced to stay in a place where a single word could cost him his life.

Even though he was tempted to give up on it sometimes, he wanted to do it on his own terms, not because of a careless mistake.

A murmur rippled through the crowd and gave way to a reverent silence as the prince—no. The _king_ , he was a king now. A crown had been placed atop his head and a heavy cloak on his shoulder; a sceptre had been put into his hand a sword strapped to his belt. He had kneeled as a prince and rose as a king with the burden of responsibility for the country bestowed upon him.

Yuuri’s heart skipped a beat when he saw him enter the ballroom, clad in a pristine white uniform adorned with gold, crowned with silver and diamonds. They shone so brightly they turned his hair translucent. Although he smiled, sadness tinged his gaze. Yuuri knew what those eyes looked like when they were overflowing with happiness.

He clenched his right hand into a fist, letting the pain ground him. Then he saw the king’s company and his heart, that already weak and jittery thing, all but stopped.

A young boy came first, no older than Minami; blond, green-eyed, and with a presence to him that could just as well bring the weak to their knees. Then there was a man whose hair was grazed with grey and whose face bore the signs of worries of yore. A plump woman held him by the arm, gazing up at him with warmth born of years spent together. The last entered a young woman, haughty in mannerism but playful in smiles and twinkling eyes. No one seemed to mind, no one as much as even blinked in surprise – and then Yuuri realised they had been expected.

Only a sudden explosion of pain in his chest reminded him of the need to breathe.

“My, my.” Chris’s words came to him muffled and nigh inaudible. “So they did let the delegation in after all.”

“It’s not...” Yuuri’s voice was a broken, pitiful thing. He loathed it; both the voice and his quivering heart that made it sound so. “That’s not the delegation. That’s the Son of the Sun.”

“The what now?”

The man who used to hold the fate of Nihon in his hands laughed at something the king said. Yuuri’s gut twisted painfully at that. After the fire, after everything – witnessing such a companionship was sickening. “The emperor, Chris. That’s the emperor.”

Chris gave the imperial family another once-over. “I thought he was dead.”

 _So did I_. “As you can see,” he said, bitterness creeping into his voice; it tasted of ashes and blood, “he is not.”

A part of him refused to accept it and he hated himself for it.

He wanted to look away but did not. He had to watch and wait, even if every single smile, every burst of laughter and every freely given gesture of affection was a knife piercing his heart without mercy. And every second ticked away slowly as he was witnessing what nothing could have prepared him for.

For what was he to do when dreams came true, but twisted so much they became unrecognisable?

The first course came and Yuuri did not move. The second and the dessert did, too, and he did not move either. They were supposed to give the guests time to eat and relax – and only when the celebrations finally got to them was he to begin, to go in and undo them.

And so when the time had come, he did.

He was silent and swift on his feet, moving behind the tables like a wisp of fog. He had to become one; a dream, a mirage that disappeared in the morning should someone dare to try to grasp it. A smile here, a kiss on the palm there; a laugh and a word to bring a blush to its recipient’s cheeks – he was giving them freely, willingly, taking in return the attention to bask in and the hearts he did not need.

A murmur rose amongst the guests, a whisper that followed hot on his heels when uncertain chuckles of embarrassment gave way to outward curiosity. Had another person ever touched them like that, with no intentions other than to elicit a spark of interest and longing that would never be addressed? Had they known a lover’s caress, unreserved and heated? He loathed to even think of intimacy born of obligations and arrangements.

Arrangements stripped their subjects off choice, and choice Yuuri would never willingly relinquish.

Ignoring the king’s attentive gaze that followed his every move, Yuuri sauntered to Sara Crispino. He put his hands on her shoulders and leant closer, letting his breath brush her ear. “Good evening, Your Highness,” he purred. She jumped in her seat and turned to him, wide-eyed. “How lovely to see you again.”

“Yuuri!” she shouted, carefree as always, and it took all of Yuuri’s willpower to take control of his face again lest it contorted into a grimace of panic. He glanced at the king and took no time in realising it to be a mistake – those blue eyes were boring into him with soul-shattering intensity. He must have heard her. “It’s so good to see you again!”

It was a performance, his own play – so he took reign of it once more. He would worry later, well into the night when everything was said and done.

“You look radiant as always, princess.” They had met only once for a few short hours – and yet he still remembered how her pearly laughter had brightened their morning. “Have you been well?”

She beamed at him in a way that contradicted Chris’s vehement statement of her exclusive preference for women. “Yes,” she said, “all is—”

“You stay away from her!” All of a sudden, Michele Crispino was between her and Yuuri. It required an admirable dexterity to have moved to swiftly. “You’ve led her astray once already, why don’t you—”

“Mickey.” Sara’s voice was clipped, dangerous even, and it made Yuuri wonder who truly wore the crown between the two of them. She would certainly be a better choice as far as morality was concerned.

After all, he had heard quite often that no brother should love his sister the way Michele Crispino did. Even now Yuuri could see a flame of insanity hidden beneath this frantic surge of possessiveness.

He bowed and brought Michele’s hand to his lips. “How nice to see you again, Your Highness,” he said. “What a lovely crown. Have you grown tired of the old one?”

Michele’s face was scarlet as he pulled his hand from Yuuri’s grasp and cradled it to his chest as if it were injured. “You _pervert_...! I’ll... What are you even...”

Yuuri blew him a kiss and walked away with a smirk before Michele even finished his rant. Let Chris deal with him – as far as Yuuri knew him, he would be delighted to rile the prince even further, be it sensible or not.

The king was still watching him. Yuuri did not even have to look his way anymore, no; he could almost feel his gaze on his body, enveloping him until no breath was left in his lungs. Would it be like that to find himself in the king’s arms? To let the body spell the words of admiration no language possessed? He knew he would not even have to ask.

He looked over to where Phichit was standing and nodded to him. Dallying was not going to make it any easier to endure, so he deemed it was time. Then he steeled himself and turned to face the king’s table.

“It was night when he came to town.” Phichit’s voice rang loud and clear over the chatter and whispers. The musicians were silent, letting Leo and Guang-Hong take over. Music was Maestro’s doing and Yuuri trusted it would be fitting. “A night just like tonight, when winter arrived unannounced and so did he as snow fell around him and hid his tracks.”

The king was looking at Yuuri, his eyes hungry like a man’s starved. Yuuri let him, although without a sign of acknowledging it. He stopped in the middle of the ballroom and cocked his hip. Thoughtful he was, holding everyone’s attention like a puppeteer.

“No one knew who he was or where he came from. Some said he was of winter, others that his soul was frozen and his touch – burning. Mothers hid their daughters, fathers warned their sons, for rumour had it he gave winter an offering of broken hearts.”

He walked to the royal table; slowly, purposely. The king’s lips parted slowly, the muscles of his neck tensed under the high collar of his uniform. Yuuri noticed the button keeping it closed and his fingers itched to pop it open and press his face into the exposed skin there to feel the flutter of the king’s pulse under his lips. He smiled sweetly, and a blush erupted on the king’s nose.

“Where’s the heart,” Yuuri said, spreading his arms wide, “where’s the joy, where’s the laughter that lightens the dark? Long and far I have travelled with no one but wind for company. No more! Bring the barrels and let the music guide you, for the night is dark and long, and nothing’s sweeter than a smile and a willing hand.”

Bouquets of flowers littered the tables amidst the sea of food. Yuuri plucked a pink peony from of the of the vases. He let his hand graze the back of the king’s chair just so, not even touching him – and yet the king leant towards him as if he was wearing a collar and Yuuri just pulled on the leash.

Then Yuuri bowed and gave the flower to the emperor’s daughter. “My lady,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “would you like to dance?”

She raised a brow and snorted in a truly un-royal manner. “I don’t dance,” she told him, fixing the cuffs of her suit. Unlike the rest of the imperial family, she was dressed in a Ruthenian fashion. A novelty, no doubt; but the cut usually seen in men’s attire and the deep red colours of the fabric suited her. “My mother does, though.”

“Your mother...” Yuuri made a show of looking around, ignoring the blond teenager’s vicious glare and the king’s entranced expression. In the end he set his eyes on the empress, who smiled and him softly. “You must be joking! A sister, perhaps, for the resemblance is striking, but definitely...” He broke off. There was only so much flattery to be said before it became overdone and sour, so he walked to the empress and fell to one knee before her. She showed no surprise. “Will you honour me with a dance, Your Imperial Highness?”

She was looking at him for a moment. He remained as he was, holding his hand palm-up in invitation. Phichit was silent, too – after all, he could not narrate what had not been written, and only Leo and Guang-Hong’s music accompanied Yuuri in this self-indulgent bout of insanity.

For once in his life, he decided to be selfish.

“Very well.” The empress inclined her head and stood up, taking Yuuri’s hand as she did so. He held it gently, this warm hand of a person he thought dead, and his heart swelled in his chest. They moved to the dance floor where a few other pairs already twirled to the music; some sombre, others seemingly bursting with joy. As much as he wanted to think otherwise, a coronation _was_ a reason for celebration even if the Ice Wolf’s cold body most likely was yet to succumb to the passage of time.

Yuuri let her set the pace, content to simply follow. She was over a head shorter than him and smelled of old books and cherries. He always did like cherries.

“You are quite good at this, sir.”

He looked down at her and smiled softly. This was no performance. This was just for him. “I’m no sir, Your Imperial Highness. Thank you, though. It’s the highest praise to hear it from you.”

“And such a gentleman.” Her open expression brought him warmth he had forgotten a long time ago. Whatever emotion that was, he no longer dared to name it. “No wonder you have that boy so smitten.”

There was no room left for doubt whom she meant by that. Yuuri deemed it prudent not to press for elaboration, lest she gave his already struggling heart even more reasons for turmoil. The king’s attention was already unwavering – and he was about to incite it even further.

He just hoped he would be able to contain the fire afterwards.

Yuuri hardly noticed when the music ended, too engrossed in the play of light in the empress’s eyes. They shone like coals in the dark, full of warmth and something that left him drowning in nostalgia. So when she stopped and bowed her head as custom dictated to all dancers no matter their birth, he stumbled over his own feet to stop as well. She smiled indulgently at that and he returned it despite the flush of embarrassment burning on his cheeks.

“Thank you,” she said. Yuuri hastened to proffer an arm for her to hold, and she did; feather-light and yet so solid. So real. “It was a pleasure. My husband has never been inclined to indulge in dancing.”

“I cannot imagine he’s able to deny you, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Oh, he isn’t.” Her smile turned equal parts wistful and playful. Love filled it to the brim. “We do dance, only in private.”

Yuuri imagined it immediately: that slow swaying to inaudible music and the gentle hold of aging hands. He was not even aware he had been craving that until his heart twisted in longing so profound it stole his breath.

“Then I am happy I was able to provide you with a few minutes of entertainment.”

She patted his arm in a gesture so motherly that he wanted to curl at her feet and weep, asking for more. “And you have my thanks for it.”

He saw her off to the table where she sat down, laughing at her daughter’s exasperated expression. Yuuri held his head high and proud, because as much as he wanted the world to disappear, the play had yet to end. So he took a deep breath, encased his heart in an armour made of steel, and placed both hands on the king’s shoulders.

The king flinched at the touch. Yuuri could feel his muscles tense beneath the heavy cloak and the uniform. Was it fear? Anticipation? Was he about to turn around and scold Yuuri for touching him unasked?

Yuuri gave him no chance to do either. “You look ravishing, Your Majesty,” he whispered into the king’s ear, even though his stomach lurched at those words. They gave the king hope and painted a vision of future that would never come to pass. Yuuri was going to be left with consequences and only now did he realise it fully. “Care for a dance?”

He leant in even closer to watch the king’s face. In the split second between surprise and indecision, his emotions were written raw all over it, clouding his eyes with a haze of confusion. Then all of it was gone, replaced with a blinding smile and a blush too deep to be attributed to the wine that was flowing generously all around.

“I would love to.” He brought Yuuri’s hand to his lips. Yuuri felt it even through the silk of his gloves. It scorched his skin, searing an imprint in the very bones of his hand. The memory of their first meeting came to his mind, back from the time when the king had been just another face in the long line of Yuuri’s admirers.

How he wished it had remained that way.

So he smiled despite his heavy heart and troubled mind, and led the king to the centre of the ballroom. Other dancers were already twirling around them, lost in the part they played unbeknownst to them. Yet when the king took Yuuri’s hand, the world shrank, leaving but the two of them and the music.

The king’s sweet smile and warm gaze bore no semblance of winter. When Yuuri held him in his arms, he saw only a promise of spring, but no matter how much he desired, believing in it would be nothing but suicide.

“If I look ravishing, then you look simply divine,” the king told him. “I could hardly look away.”

Yuuri allowed himself a moment of weakness and squeezed his hands. “It appears flattery is your mother tongue, Your Majesty.”

“Haven’t I told you multiple times already, ‘tis no flattery?”

A smile Yuuri usually graced the patrons with was an empty, rehearsed thing. The play called for it, so he brought it onto his face. “You have indeed.”

“And when winter raged above the world,” Phichit picked up, his voice interwoven with the music seamlessly as if it were simply another instrument, “he set his eyes on the most beautiful man in town, who took his hand willingly heedless of the words of warning whispered into his ears. For warnings were void in the face of demands of the heart, no matter how impossible they were.”

The king’s eyes widened. “Is he... is this...?” He started to pull away, but Yuuri held his hands tightly.

“The play, yes. It hasn’t ended yet, Your Majesty. Whatever gave you the impression it’s over?”

He watched the king’s eyes grow dim, the warmth within morphing into a harsh chill of a midwinter night. Instead of saying anything, the king clenched his teeth so hard that the muscles of his jaw flexed under the skin. This was what Yuuri wanted, was it not? To crush the king’s hopes and silly, misplaced affection so thoroughly that they would never grow back. After all, this was the man whose father had set Yuuri’s world on fire.

Now that he succeeded, all he could taste was ashen disappointment instead of elation he had been expecting.

“You,” the king finally said and his voice was just as hollow as his eyes, “are a cruel man, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s stomach plummeted into what seemed to be a bottomless pit of terror. Suspecting the king had heard his name was one thing – hearing him say it was a thing of nightmares.

“The most beautiful man in town listened to no one, after all, and his heart sang in the face of winter.”

“So that’s your name, isn’t it?” The King was looking into his eyes as if he wanted to pick Yuuri apart and put him back together as he saw fit. Under his unwavering attention Yuuri’s heart was a pitiful, quivering heap of sorrow and misery. He had done it to himself – and why? What bout of madness and spite had possessed him to bring it onto himself? “Sara Crispino called you that.”

Yuuri had not planned for _that_ , so just hummed something; a wordless sound that could be either an affirmation or a negation.

“They danced the night away and kept winter at bay with the fire of their hearts, lost in a moment meant to last forever. Little did they know, but in end winter smothered even the greatest of fires.”

The king skimmed his fingers over Yuuri’s neck. “Was she the one—?”

“Gods, no.” He found his voice a moment too late, too enraptured in the simmer consuming his nerve endings. “She... She spent a few hours with us once as a result of my colleague’s careless folly.”

Should he even be speaking about that particular morning? Michele Crispino would surely kill him if he found out, but at that very moment all Yuuri wanted was to steer the conversation away from himself.

“Christophe’s, I presume?” The king let out a breathy chuckle; a sound so unexpected Yuuri hardly believed he even heard it. “Ah, Christophe. I’ve barely recognised him at your last play.”

“You...” No words had ever made less sense, for why would He know Chris? “You’ve met before, I gather?”

“Once.” A faraway look took possession of the king’s eyes; the kind of which Yuuri’s feeble heart desired to chase away with a kiss and tender touches. “At a ball I attended with my mother many years ago. Christophe was barely out of boyhood at that time. He was gifted with an angel’s curls and the sweetest smile. No wonder his father was so stunned and furious when the talk started.”

Yuuri could only nod, absentmindedly schooling his expression into that of understanding. Whatever Chris was hiding, that sweet smile of his turned out to be the most efficient disguise.

“Yuuri,” the king said again with no apparent reason. Yuuri cursed Sara Crispino to the depths of hells and back. “ _Yuuri_. You know, my late betrothed’s name was also Yuuri. I wonder if he would’ve been as lovely as you are.”

Just when Yuuri thought his heart could not break any further. “I must not be doing my part right if you can still think about the dead.” It came out as a croak, hoarse and pitiful even to his own ears. Despite that, he still managed to take the lead and dip the king as he would a lover during a moonlit dance. “Shame on me.”

“Shame on you,” the king agreed, the tip of his nose turning the slightest shade of pink, “for seeing this as but a part in the play.”

“Careful, Your Majesty,” Yuuri whispered to the king's ear, delighting in the shiver that wracked his body. “Has no one ever told you that you shan’t trust as actor, for they know nothing but deceit?”

He gave the king no time to respond and led him around the dance floor to the rapid crescendo of the music. It was meant to take the king’s breath away and render him speechless, to strip him off the will to keep saying those insane, beautiful things Yuuri knew better than accept. When they moved past the musicians, he sought out Phichit’s eyes instead; a single nod was enough to set the play in motion once more.

He had deemed himself ready, but frigid tendrils of fear that coiled around his spine were all he was feeling now; nothing but a harbinger of calamity of his own making.

Leo and Guang-Hong finished their song. The dancers dispersed, gracing their partners with customary bows and sometimes, if Yuuri’s eyes did not deceive him, with a single kiss to the other’s hand; quick, almost chaste, innocent enough not to cause a scandal but perhaps enough to pose a promise. If it only were any other person Yuuri was holding in his arms, he would have kissed him as well, extending an invitation for a night that would take his mind off the matter at hand. Alas, it was the king; the very person Yuuri wished to forget about.

“Yuuri...” The king was holding his hands tightly despite the lack of music. He was still standing close, and a tremor ran through his body whenever Yuuri got even closer. Yuuri was not going to fool himself into believing he was imagining it. Were he to hold out his hand, the king would take it in a heartbeat.

So he let go.

The king lurched forward like a puppet with strings suddenly cut and dropped. Instead of catching him, Yuuri turned on his heel.

“And so the most beautiful man in town was cast away, yet another lost soul devoured and left bereft. The man who came to town turned his gaze elsewhere, for the folk were right in their warnings. He truly was fickle like the winter itself, and who would ever dare to tame winter?”

Yuuri closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The palm of his injured hand was pulsing and the glove felt damp. He had no time to take it off and see if it was just sweat. It was yet another thing that had to wait for the play to end, just like the shivers he could barely contain and the unshed tears burning under his eyelids. He still—

“But what the folk could not know was that winter was his friend and shelter he so often needed. It took him in and hid his tracks, covered his presence from the eyes of the world. And still it’s not enough, for the tracks can be uncovered, and the veil can be lifted, and what has been frozen—”

“My love!”

“—can thaw. Yet when it does, what’s left of it?”

Chris walked into the ballroom like a hurricane, unstoppable, clothed in reds and blacks that swirled around his body like wisps of fire. He resembled an ember, dormant but still burning within, waiting only for the right moment to burst in flames and consume everything on its path.

Out of his many qualities, Chris certainly burnt high and bright.

“Your love?” Yuuri said mockingly. He sneered at the very thought and danced out of the way of hands aimed at him. Behind him, the king made a questioning noise but it was ignored, almost forgotten like the few dancers that still remained standing. Whatever song they were hoping for, it would never come. “I am neither.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Never have been.”

“But you will.”

“I’d rather die.”

Yuuri felt the guests’ eyes on the both of them, their attention rapt and unwavering. He let it seep into his bones and blood, headier than any alcohol. The king was watching, too, as he still stood next to them. His presence was strangely out of place there, right in the middle of feast held in his honour.

“Who was it that followed the man from town to town? Whose smile broke the dark like a ray of sunshine, whose hand was warm and willing? Who did the man bound to winter run away from?”

“You look radiant, my love.” Chris was always a step behind him as Yuuri made his way between the tables and the guests. Too close, too persistent – a nuisance, nothing more. “You always do. What poor bastard have fallen for you here? Whom have you left heartbroken?”

“As if that mattered.” Yuuri glanced at the king. He did not move, but was watching them with a furrowed brow. Yuuri would give a fortune to know what he was thinking. “’Tis not for you to know.”

“Isn’t it, fiancé of mine?”

The laugh Yuuri let out was nothing like his own. “Fiancé?” he repeated after Chris. “Fiancé?! What a jest. I’m no fiancé of yours. You’re but a menace that haunts me, a shadow no sun can dispel.”

Chris took his hand and placed it on his chest, right above his heart. During the months they spent practising, Yuuri had come to loathe the smile Chris was giving him now. “And forever I shall be the shadow at your feet and the air you breathe. Forever I shall follow you and hold you, forever I shall keep you close.”

Yuuri tore his hand away. “You are insane. Even more so if you think I want to have anything to do with you.”

“It’s been promised.” Storm was raging in Chris’s eyes now, lit by insanity that rivalled that of Michele Crispino. “You’ve been mine for years, don’t you know it?”

“How dare you claim I should take you because of an arrangement?” Yuuri’s voice was so loud it echoed in the ballroom, fading into nothing only after a long, long while. “An arrangement! Am I cattle to be sold? What a preposterous idea, the arrangement. It concerns me not. Do you hear me?” He grabbed the front of Chris’s jacket and pulled his close until their noses almost touched. “I _refuse_.”

Only scant centimetres divided them. Chris wasted no time in leaning in and claiming Yuuri’s lips in a kiss. A mockery of it, nothing more, and Yuuri pulled away immediately.

“How _dare_ you—”

“I’d burn the world for you.” Chris’s voice was fire incarnate, that of passion and flames of uncontrollable desire. “I’d give you everything.”

“You’ve _taken_ everything from me.” Yuuri let the bitterness into his voice. Memories of loss fuelled him until his heart burst open. “Don’t you remember? You put a knife to my love’s throat and sliced it open.”

If the audience reacted to that any way, he did not hear it. In fact, the audience was no more as he let the moment take him over.

“I held his hand when he died—”

“That he did and that hand was cold like a midwinter night.”

“—and I buried him under a cypress tree as butterflies danced between its branches, and I vowed to myself, ‘ _No more_ ’.”

“He said taking the world as a witness.”

“No more I shall endeavour the idea of love. No more I shall open my heart to a sweet caress and kisses stole at midnight.”

“The most beautiful man in town heard those words and wept, for he knew his hopes were in vain.”

Chris came closer again. An uncontrollable inferno raged in his eyes. “And I vow I shall make you mine as was promised. I shall take you as my husband and show you nothing but love that burns for you in my heart. And if anyone dares to come between us, the pain they’ll know will be sung about for all eternity.”

Yuuri lurched forward. His hand closed around the handle of the knife strapped to Chris’s belt and pulled it; the other one pushed him away with much greater force than necessary. Chris stumbled backwards and nearly fell. Yuuri was going to have to apologise for that. Later, though. It was all for later.

A solitary rose in one of the vases caught his eyes. Its petals were died pale blue and reminded him of the king’s eyes.

Before he could think better of it, he snatched it from the vase and gave it to the king. “Forget me,” he said and could not tell if it was only the play he had in mind, or life itself. Then he turned to Chris again, who was slowly retreating into the shadows at the back of the ballroom. “You’ll never have me! I’ll swim across the endless sea, I’ll climb the highest mountains, I’ll go to the end of the world and beyond to get away from you!”

“Come rain or hail,” Chris said from the dark, “come winter night – I will always find you.”

Yuuri cast a manic glance around the ballroom, taking in the entranced eyes and mouths parted in anticipation. He let his gaze skim over the king who was holding the rose in his hands as if he had been given a gift that would dissipate the moment he let go of it.

“What constitutes love?” Yuuri let his hand fall down to his side. The knife’s blade glinted in the light. “When does it start? Is it a breath that brings it, the one between seeing someone for the first time and the first moment of their absence that follows it? Does it hide in the first smile? Or the first laugh you hear? The moment they take your hand in theirs?” His eyes wandered, for a moment coming to a stop on the imperial family. They were watching him as avidly as everyone else. “Love cannot be bought. Cannot be forced. Cannot be arranged. Foolish are those who think otherwise.”

Not even a breath broke the silence that fell when he stopped. The king’s eyes were like a brand being burnt into the skin of his neck. After all, he knew what it felt like.

“Love, love, where are thee? Where have thee gone that I cannot follow? The world is cold and empty and my heart beats no more. Has it ever? Were thee real?

“Love, love, tired I am. Thou claimed my heart and left me alone and...” He fell to his knees. It was about time; his legs were shaking so much he could barely stand.

_Let’s end this._

The knife’s blade was cold against his abdomen.

“The tales and songs and stories whispered before dawn, they were all wrong.” His voice was getting quieter with each word. He let it. That way the clatter of the knife that fell onto the floor resembled a thunderclap. “Thou were meant to be here and yet there’s nothing but cold.”

“His footsteps were bloody when he left, but still the snow covered them as it always did.”

“Foolish I was to expect. Foolish to hope. There’s no one.” Yuuri raised his head to look at the king. His eyes were glistening, though it could not be anything but a trick of light. “In death we are all alone.”

“Winter has claimed him,” Phichit said in the silence that fell, “and none shall know his fate.”

 

* * *

 

“Yuuri.”

His name was so soft when it fell from the king’s lips. It sounded like a poem, reverent and enchanting. Yuuri wanted to drown in that feeling.

 _‘Mingle,’_ Maestro had said. _‘Make connections. Reap your success.’_

 _‘You cannot leave until they think they own you,’_ Maname had added. _‘Then you smile and disappear, and they’re left wondering if you were even real.’_

He did not know how much time had passed since they finished. Too many people he had thanked, too many hands he had shaken, too many nonsensical promises he had made. Sara Crispino had wept into his chest, holding him in a nigh desperate embrace. Lilia Baranovskaya had given him no more than a curt nod and yet it felt like the highest of praises. Only the king had not said a single word and retreated back to his table, pensive and withdrawn. It brought Yuuri as much relief as chagrin. He had been expecting laughter and mockery, perhaps even an outburst of rage.

Silence was not a reaction he had been anticipating.

He mingled until he no longer felt his feet, until his throat hurt and his glove was soaked through with blood. He mingled until the guests began to trickle out of the ballroom one by one, bidding goodbyes left and right. Only then did he slip back through the curtain he had come from at the beginning, welcoming the dimness behind with an open heart, starved for calm.

The king was already there, waiting.

“Your Majesty,” Yuuri said but did not bow. He could not; not when only willpower kept him upright. “I thought you’ve already retired for the night.”

“Without seeing you again?”

Yuuri let out a shuddering breath. It nearly tore his lungs apart. “You’ve been seeing me all evening, Your Majesty. Surely you’ve had your fill.”

“Of you?” The king twirled the blue rose between his fingers. He was still holding on to it, even though it already started to withering. “I don’t think I can.”

Would Yuuri’s heart ever stop hurting? He clenched his trembling hands into fists and averted his gaze. That damned rose was mocking him. “Careful, Your Majesty. It seems you haven’t been paying attention to the play.”

The king took another step closer. It resembled a hellish loop, this predicament they had found themselves in – repeating itself over and over until one of them gave up.

And Yuuri was so, so tired.

“Oh, but I have. I simply remember how you looked at me before you knew who I was. I’m a weak man, Yuuri. You can’t blame me for hoping to see it again.”

Just like that, the time for subtlety was over. “You’re wrong to hope, Your Majesty. I may be just an actor, but I’m not a thing to possess.”

“I do not wish to possess you.” The king’s eyes were full of devotion so earnest that Yuuri’s heart burst into flames. He had known admiration ever since his first role, but this was something else entirely; something that almost made his feel in control. “I’d give you the world, Yuuri.”

_Your father has burnt it._

“And what if I do not want it?”

“Then I’d give you a hand to hold through the night, and a place to rest your head, and a shelter from the worries of the heart.”

Against logic and reason, against his better judgement, Yuuri believed him. “Your affections are misplaced, Your Majesty. What you want is impossible.”

“I do not believe in impossible.”

He would not, now; would he? When even did the Nikiforovs let themselves be hindered by the impossible? They challenged the world itself and won.

“Yuuri.” Who gave him the right to spell Yuuri’s name as if it were precious? “Just say the word and you shall never see me again. But please, if the way you acted before you knew...”

Gods, he was so beautiful. The Fates truly could not be crueller.

“What makes you think it was about you, Your Majesty?” he asked, because his heart was tired and his mind was weary, and the mask he wore was so heavy. “Perhaps I take a lover in every city we visit and then leave them behind, discarded like toys?”

Those blue eyes were boring into him like chisels, taking apart layers upon layers of lies until only the core of him remained; a broken, lonely boy who had lost everything upon his own decision, bleeding out under the winter sky.

“I think,” the king finally said; his voice held no contempt Yuuri was expecting, “you would have taken and discarded me, then, instead of telling me about it.”

A step, then another, and the space between them became infinitesimal. Even in the dark, Yuuri could make out every tiny wrinkle in the corners of the king’s eyes, and could count each one of his lashes and every speck of silver in his irises. A hand cupped his cheek and he leant into it, seeking comfort as much as warmth.

Funny. He had thought that hand would be cold.

“May I?”

Yuuri nodded and closed his eyes, letting the thumping of his heart be the only sound he could hear. He did not know what he agreed to, and something bitter began to swell within him. It claimed his lungs for itself and tasted like decades of regret.

The king untied the straps of his mask. Without it, Yuuri felt naked, stripped for everyone to see – even more so when the king gently tipped his face upwards. When was the last time someone touched him so tenderly? It might have been his mother.

The king’s eyes were darting all over Yuuri’s face. From his eyes to his lips and back, and along his cheekbone as he traced the shape of it with his thumb. Yuuri felt his breath on his skin, and the warmth of his body all around him.

It reminded him of summer.

“Yuuri...” The king’s voice was breathless, pleading. Yuuri should take his heart and break it once and for all, smash it to pieces and watch him never recover. It would be good enough a revenge for what his father had done; for the pain and anguish, and the thirteen years of inconsolable grief. And yet there he stood, trembling, fighting for even a sliver of reason and basking in affection bestowed upon him so willingly.

The king’s eyes shone like diamonds, and under his gaze Yuuri felt powerful. He raised a hand to run it through the king’s fringe – its strands truly felt like moonlight, just like in his dream.

“Yuuri—”

He wasted no more time in capturing the king’s mouth in a kiss. Yuuri felt him gasp under his lips, felt him stumble and shudder, felt his arms wrap around his waist and pull him closer until no space remained between them. Yuuri brought a hand up to the king’s neck and rested it there in a gesture so simple, yet so meaningful. It made the king shiver in his arms.

“Yuuri...”

Yuuri nibbled on his bottom lip; not at all gently, pouring into it all the fire that was burning within him. The king whined embarrassingly loud – if anyone was nearby, surely they must have heard that. The possibility of being caught only spurred Yuuri to hold him tighter and kiss him deeper, to drag his fingernails up into the short hair on the back of the king’s head and down his neck again to tease them under the collar of his uniform.

“Yuuri,” the king whispered between kisses, leaning down and chasing Yuuri’s mouth whenever he pulled away for even the briefest of moment. “Yuuri...”

 _Viktor_ , chanted Yuuri’s heart, overwhelmed and trembling. _Viktor_ , it sang as Yuuri hooked his leg around the king’s waist and pulled him flush into himself. _Viktor_ , his entire mind repeated like a mantra when Viktor’s hand found its way to the underside of that leg and held it firm, providing additional balance Yuuri was quickly beginning to lose. His whole body was on fire.

When Viktor stilled under his hands and lips, Yuuri lurched forward, seeking the warmth of his lips again. And yet it was in vain, for Viktor was looking at him with nothing but terror. “Yuuri,” he whispered, thumbs rubbing the sensitive skin under Yuuri’s eyes. His gesture held no desire; Yuuri, frustrated, licked his lips and— _oh_. “Why are you crying? Have I done something?”

When did he even start crying? “I...” he said, the flames within him dying out like leaves on the first strike of winter. He lowered his leg – it was shaking.

“Yuuri, please, talk to me.” The king’s voice gained on a desperate edge. If Yuuri did not know better, he might have mistaken it for panic.

“I... I’m sorry.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. Ah, what an idiot he was. “Forgive me.”

_Forget me._

How could he have looked at Viktor Nikiforov and—

_Forget me._

He bowed as deep as aching body allowed him. “Goodnight, Your Majesty.” He nearly choked on those words – they tasted like tears.

_Forget me._

The king screamed his name – a broken, pitiful mockery of a word, closer to a cry than anything Yuuri had ever heard before. He ignored it just like he paid no attention to his trembling muscles as he took off running. For the first time in days his room did not seem like a gilded cage he despised. It became a shelter instead, a refuge where he wept, fighting for every breath as hours ticked and night went on outside, quiet and cold like the emptiness he was holding in his arms.

He fell asleep like that – on the floor, covered in sweat and blood, shaking and dizzy from the lack of air his tightened throat refused to let through. If winter came and claimed him, he would not resist, for that that was what he deserved – a quiet demise for all his deeds of yore; the deeds he insulted by reckless demands of his own heart. The least he could do was break it, but nothing could have prepared him for how much it hurt to walk away. The king’s anguish was like a dagger, twisting and turning and cutting him into pieces.

_Forgive me._

He dreamt of broken hope painted in blue.

 

* * *

 

When the guards pulled him to his feet and dragged him out of the room before dawn, the king’s eyes were cold like a midwinter morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains: unhealthy coping mechanisms courtesy of Yuuri (alcohol abuse and a drunken one-night stand); non-graphic descriptions of injuries and panic attacks; mentions of blood.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://naamah-beherit.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/naamahbeherit), and [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/naamahbeherit) in case you'd like to say hello, file a complaint report, or witness occasional floods of photos of dogs and the outer space.


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